


Playing with Fire

by lciel



Series: The Seed that Burst into Flame [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Betrayal, Complicated Relationships, Gen, Intrigue, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nilfgaard, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-14 12:30:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14769665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lciel/pseuds/lciel
Summary: The third act of the "The Seed that Burst into Flame" Series. Things get hot as various parties return to the City of Nilfgaard, and Ciri must make some very difficult choices.





	1. Setting the Board

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dordean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/gifts).



_The port city of Baccàla, 20 th of Velen 1285, in the glorious reign of Kaer’zer Emhyr_

 

At long last, their ship had reached its final destination. The port of Baccàla supplied all shipped goods for the capital half a day’s march up the river. Corinne watched fondly as her brief student ambled down the gangway onto the land. He had found a friendly trader willing to take them up the road on his wagon. Once their luggage was stowed away, Geralt helped Corinne up onto the back of the wagon. Comfortably seated on a huge pile of bolts of cloth, four oxen dragged them all up a broad stone road away from the port, and across a range of hills. Once they reached the first peak, her breath caught: There lay the city of the golden towers, the pearl of the Empire.

When the stranger had offered her a drink that night in the Golden Sturgeon few weeks ago, she had welcomed his company. De Jonkheer had just threatened her with the temple guard again, if she did not move out of his house by the next day, and she had no idea where to go. She had no money saved, business was bad, and food expensive with the shortages elsewhere in the country. Sara was of little help in human matters, and they had quarrelled terribly when Corinne tried to explain to the godling why they could not stay in the house. Sara had screamed at her to go and leave her alone. So Corinne had tried to drown her sorrows at the pub with the last few crowns in her pockets. He had been kind to her, inviting her for another drink, when he offered her a business proposition. All she had to do was help the next person who knocked on her door, and he would grant her three wishes. On the small caveat that if she did not uphold her end of the bargain, he joked that he would take her soul. Drunk and angry, she had agreed. To keep her house, she had said to him that was her first wish. To never quarrel with Sara again. And another vodka! She had giggled, and he had swiftly ordered another. It was late in the afternoon of the next day, when she had awoken in her bed to the loud knocking on the door. The woman who called herself Delores had stood on her doorstep with a proposal and a bag full of gold just to start with. Hesitantly, Corinne had accepted. Only when she had gone back to her room to get properly dressed she had seen the glowing mark on her thigh. That night, a terrible vision had assailed her. In it, she saw the golden towers, ablaze under a burning red sun.

Next to her on the wagon, Geralt was humming under his breath. She vaguely recognised the melody of one of Dandelion’s ballads. Be brave, she thought, trust your instinct. The city gates were just coming into view.

~*~

Geralt noticed the presence of the guard more forcefully, but it was not until he reached the palace gate under the Midäete Tower in the evening that he was stopped and questioned to his intents. The Impera Brigade was on high alert, and no visitors were permitted on the palace grounds. Corinne had insisted she could wait elsewhere, but Geralt was loathe to leave her alone. It took a while of arguing back and forth, when Geralt spied a familiar face past the gate.

“Matsen!” he yelled past the guards, and managed to catch the man’s attention. The commander of the guard was on horseback, inspecting a cartload of something. A wave of the hand was enough for Geralt and Corinne to be allowed to pass.

“Witcher”, the commander said less than amiably, “I did not expect to see you again after your sudden departure. Who is your companion?”

Geralt looked up to him, coming to stand near the horse: “This is Corinne Tilly, a good friend who has offered to help. Yen needed my services in the north, and I have been investigating the curse there. We have found important leads.”

That caught the commander’s attention. He quickly gestured for Geralt to be silent. Giving some brief orders to other men around him, he left the horse with a guard and motioned for the witcher to follow.

“She will stay with one of my men in the guardhouse, visitors are currently not permitted. So will your weapons”, Matsen insisted. Corinne accepted that proposition hesitantly. Geralt, once more feeling naked without his silver and steel, went with Matsen. They entered the palace near the mess hall of the Impera Brigade and descended a couple of stairs to an area Geralt had never been to before. He could gather that they must be underground, not least due to the lack of windows. Initially, they had gone past a heavily guarded corridor, but down here the hallways were empty. A single woman in unassuming clothing had passed them once. Matsen knocked on a wooden door, and a servant answered. They entered a walk-through room housing the desk of a scribe and some shelves and drawers. The servant announced them to the person in the study beyond, who called to them to enter. The witcher recognised the voice of Vattier de Rideaux.

“Geralt of Rivia, returned from an unknown location, arriving at the port of Baccalá this morning”, the master spy greeted.

“I picked them up at the gate”, Matsen let know, “to where I now must return to oversee provisions.”

Rideaux nodded at him in thanks and motioned for Geralt to sit. He scrutinised the witcher carefully, then leaned back in his seat: “What news do you bring me, then?”

“The sorceress Yennefer and I have gone to Velen, where we suspected the curse upon His Majesty had been cast”, the witcher began to recount the last days. He reported how they had found the body of the crone, and that Ciri had disposed of her. Then he had jumped to finding Corinne in Novigrad, and that he hoped the Emperor might be willing to accept her assistance. Rideaux nodded thoughtfully when Geralt had finished.

“And when, witcher”, his eyes were sharp, “were you going to inform me of that rather unfortunate run-in at the army camp on the Kimbolt?”

Geralt swallowed: “You asked me after the curse. I don’t get involved-”

“-in politics?” the spy snorted, “Don’t try playing me for a fool, Geralt of Rivia. You have served several kings, murdered two, or at least been involved in the conspiracies against them. You are the mentor of the heiress of the imperial throne, you cannot afford to abstain from politics.”

The two men stared at each other wordlessly, motionlessly.

“You are also a lucky man”, Rideaux resumed, “first, because the Emperor keeps you in his personal favour and trust” – at that Geralt scoffed, but Rideaux looked at him in complete seriousness – “and secondly, because he will require your services immediately.”

“So will you consider letting Corinne Tilly-”, Geralt began, but Rideaux interrupted him.

“There is no time for dreams now, and under no circumstances would I allow a stranger with such powers near him. The Emperor has been unconscious for days, his strength is leaving him, yes, but he is alive. Whatever happened to that crone has stopped the sleepwalking, if not the nightmares. But we must search for this godling later.” Rideaux’s glare was chilling.

“Then what is it _you_ require my services for, given that Emhyr is incapacitated?” Geralt asked tersely, fed up with the niceties.

Rideaux dropped the glare, smoothening his features: “I need you to get His Majesty out of the palace and into a safe location as fast as possible,” at that the witcher’s face became comical, “without alerting his servants and guards.”

“Why?” Geralt asked stonily.

The master spy’s mouth drew into a thin line: “Because otherwise I fear the Emperor will be dead within the coming days. I have reason to believe that somebody is planning to assassinate the Emperor before General Voorhis returns to the capital. He is expected tomorrow, the fleet was sighted in the waters of Ebbing.” Rideaux paused briefly. “Furthermore I have been informed that the fleet has been overcome by a storm of unnatural origin, which suggests that both the Emperor and the General are under threat.”

Geralt frowned: “And have you been informed who is behind this complot?”

Rideaux face morphed into something venomous and calculating: “Reports on such matters can be deceiving. But I believe in understanding motives. I am also among the few people who know that the Emperor has signed a document that will make Morvran Voorhis his heir in the event he abdicates or passes away due to natural causes. The signing of this document has been witnessed by his closest advisors only: myself, the chamberlain Peter Evertsen, the commander of the Imperial Guard Reinard aep Matsen, and the sorceress Yennefer of Vengerberg. But, the document also states clearly, that if unnatural causes of death can be attested that implicate the General, the arrangement becomes moot. Furthermore, the claim of a natural heir takes precedence. Sealed copies of this document are kept in several secret locations.”

“So anybody who knows of this document is aware that if Emhyr dies, Voorhis has a claim on the throne?” Geralt inquired after a thought, “And anybody who knows of this could destroy that claim by killing Emhyr in Voorhis’ name?”

“Or by publicly presenting the natural heir”, Rideaux finished. “Furthermore, they would need to prevent His Majesty from making this arrangement public. Which precisely was his intent just before the curse pulled him under completely. I do not believe in coincidences where the succession is concerned.”

Geralt closed his eyes in defeat: “Who betrayed him?” Lifting his lids a little, he could make out the look of complete frustration on Rideaux face. “You don’t know, do you? And why do you trust me?” At that, Rideaux’s face grew even sourer.

“My options under the circumstances are limited,” the master spy murmured, “several people I know with excellent judgement of character trust you, and we are running out of time.”

~*~

_Imbaelk tower, the same evening:_

She arrived in a flash of green light, stumbling slightly as she landed on the balcony of Yen’s tower. Such a stumble had not happened to her in a long time, and she berated herself for teleporting when she was this upset. Calming herself with a few deep breaths, she knocked on the window. It took a moment for Yen to let her in.

“Ciri”, the sorceress tried to hug her, but the blonde blocked the gesture, “Ciri, what happened?”

“Why did you come to get me on Skellige?” the younger woman asked, voice breaking. She wished for her mother to explain everything, dissuade her terrible suspicion. But Yennefer remained silent. There they stood, in the flickering light of the chandeliers, unable to look at each other. Ciri felt as if the floor was caving in under her. She could not even cry.

“I tried to give you a choice, on Skellige I warned you what might happen…” Yen said weakly, brokenly.

“But you failed to mention that you always intended for me to get trapped here?” Her voice felt alien to her, freezing cold. She felt so incredibly betrayed. There was another long silence.

“I would never,” Yen breathed eventually, a sob breaking her voice, “never, do you hear me, wanted to trap you. But we _need_ you, don’t you understand.”

“So is this all an elaborate setup? A curse, a contract, the perfect bait to catch a witcher?” Ciri wondered bitterly. She just stared at the floor, trying to breathe through the emotions that were choking her.

“Ciri…” her mother whispered, “The Lodge had no choice. And they truly mean you no harm.”

Ciri scoffed: “Really?” Her voice was hollow. “And what exactly would they like me to do next? Do a little dance on my strings?”

“Ciri…” her mother sighed, resting her hands on the blonde’s shoulders. Ciri flinched. “Ciri, together we will find a way-”

“I cannot do this!” Ciri screamed, and the room around them began to shake for a second. Then the lady of space and time managed to calm herself. “What do they want?” she said in a small voice.

“We’ll find out first thing tomorrow”, Yen promised. The eyes of the sorceress were dark like the angry sea.

 

 


	2. Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Dordean; for the reviews and the interest in de Rideaux :)

_20 th Velen 1285, simultaneously at the palace_

Before he had left, Rideaux had shown Geralt a plan of the palace, pointing out the routines of the guards. Then they had taken a secret passage from the master spy’s study into a system of secret tunnels crisscrossed through the plateau on which the palace had been erected.

“The closest exit to the royal bedchamber is in the parlour. You know the way from there? Good.” Rideaux left the passage ahead of Geralt, scouting out the Emperor’s private wing of the palace. Geralt followed him silently. Night had fallen, and only a few candles were lit. Various pieces of furniture provided amble shadows to hide in. From the corridor, the witcher heard two pairs of voices chatting with the spy. Peering around the corner of the doorway, he saw that it was the guards in front of Emhyr’s bed chamber talking to Rideaux. They all had their back turned. Then, with a movement even Geralt found hard to make out, the guards collapsed and Rideaux gave him the signal. Quickly, Geralt stole across the hallway and gingerly opened the bedroom door. Thankfully the hinges were well-oiled. The room beyond was completely dark. The curtains around the bed were closed. Carefully, he let the door slide shut again. The witcher was about to relax, when something creaked at the other side of the room. The sliding of door hinges could be heard, then the faintest scratching of wood against wood.

“Who is there?” the voice of the chief chamberlain broke the silence.

“Geralt of Rivia”, the witcher said softly after a second of contemplation.

There as some rustling of fabric, and then dim, flickering light came round the bed. Evertsen appeared, holding a candle. “So you have returned?” he said, smoothing down some wrinkles in his doublet.

“Yes, I have concluded some investigations,” the witcher affirmed, “how has His Majesty been?”

Evertsen fixed him with a calculating stare: “Calmer in the last days. Matsen informed me you found some leads?”

“Killed one of them,” Geralt admitted, “We are working on the others.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Evertsen moving to the door, a piece of metal glinting hidden in his hand. The witcher decided fast, stepping behind the chamberlain and covering his mouth and nose with one hand. The other went around his throat. It took half a minute of struggle, but eventually the body grew lax in his arms. The chamberlain dropped the letter-opener and candle to the floor with a double clank, and the flame went out. Carefully, Geralt laid the unconscious man on the ground. He peeked into the corridor once, only to find it completely empty. Then he closed the door again and examined the room. A panel of the wall behind the bed stood ajar. Peering behind it, the witcher could make out a small study. A single window opened up into a courtyard, several yards below. Moonlight fell through the glass, illuminating the room well enough for the witcher to make out most details. A set of drawers stood haphazardly open. Somebody had searched the study. A document with a broken seal was left lying on the desk, surrounded by a blank sheet of the same paper, an open ink well, quill, and some sealing wax. Two paintings hung on the walls. He was about to examine one of them closer, when he heard noises coming from the hallway. On a hunch he tucked the document away and swiftly returned to the bedroom. He shouldered the chamberlain, and with an afterthought, deposited him in the hidden study. The candle and letter-opener had been left lying on the floor. Quickly, the witcher went to pick them up too and placed the candle on the bedside table. He stared at the letter-opener in his hand. The steps were coming ever closer. Too late the witcher realised that the wall panel to the secret study had slipped shut. In a hurry, he could not find the mechanism that opened it. Unable to hide anywhere else, Geralt quickly brushed one side of the curtains away and knelt on the bed next to the Emperor’s sleeping form. The curtains fell shut just as the steps outside reached the door.

Light boots squeaked on the wooden floors. Geralt tried to adjust his breath to the slow exhale of the warm body next to him. The door opened and somebody shone a light into the room. “The hallway in clear, witcher” Vattier called softly. Then the door fell shut and the footsteps distanced themselves again. Geralt carefully left the bed, and let his hands glide over the wall panel again. He simply could not find the mechanism. His supplies, including most potions, had been left in his room at their sudden departure. He was tempted to collect them, but time was in short supply. Focussing on the task at hand, he listened at the door. No guards could be heard, and he peeked his head into the hallway. It was still empty. He figured that Rideaux could only buy him that much time, so he threw open the curtains and picked up the sleeping Emperor.

Staring at Emhyr’s lax face, Geralt wondered if he was making the right decision. Something in his guts told him he had to act. Slinging the body over his shoulder, he grabbed a dark quilt from the bed with his free hand, to cover the man in the white nightshirt as well as he could. Then he pushed the door open and quickly walked back the way he had come. He was about to enter the parlour, when he heard several pairs of boots bursting through the far door of the room. Quickly turning the other way, Geralt made it past a corner in the hallway. Sounds and lights were coming up behind him.

“This way”, a man the witcher had seen before, but could not place, hissed from an open door to his left. Quickly, he followed the command, letting the other lead him towards the private garden. Staying in the shadow of the colonnade, they made it all the way to the bathhouse without being spotted. Crouched in the dark near the entrance, he waited for the stranger to unlock the doors, which eventually creaked open. The witcher hoped the noise would not betray their location.

With purposeful steps, the stranger led him towards the frigidarium. The floor next to the pool had a maintenance hatch. It was a heavy stone tile that could be lifted by a metal ring. The witcher rebalanced the Emperor’s weight on his shoulder while the other opened the hatch. A ladder led down about two or three yards into a tunnel. The opening was narrow. Climbing down first, the witcher received the Emperor’s body being lowered down into his arms. The stranger passed him a lantern down into the tunnel, before giving him instructions the witcher could not remember too well. Then the stranger closed the hatch above them.

Down into the low tunnel, Geralt was forced to drag the Emperor behind him on the quilt he had brought along by sheer luck. For once, the curse proved itself useful. Emhyr did not wake once, even though the floor was not exactly smooth. The tunnel went straight ahead, with a slight downward tilt. Intermittently, other tunnels with pipes joined it. Geralt followed the slope, as the stranger had told him. The smell was musty, but eventually he caught a fresher breeze from one of the side tunnels. He hoped that was the right one. The tunnel ended in an opening roughly three yards above the river. Cautiously, he doused the light. A solid iron grate blocked their exit. Geralt cursed. Letting go of the Emperor, he tested the strength of the metal. It was in good condition. The anchoring in the rock was the only chance he had. Concentrating, he cast the strongest aard he could. The rock crumbled, and some of the bolts came loose. He repeated the process several more times. Eventually, he slumped against the wall. He thought about searching for another exit, when he picked up on the faintest noise in the tunnel behind him. Squinting in the moonlight, he saw a mist of something that suddenly solidified into a man. Habitually, he reached for his silver sword, grasping at thin air.

“Surprised?” Rideaux asked, coming to stand next to the iron grate. The witcher huffed, trying to calm his racing pulse. The higher vampire dropped a bundle on the floor, part of which Geralt identified as his personal belongings. His swords, unfortunately, were not among the heap. Tapping a finger against his chin, Rideaux braced himself against the metal. With a sudden clank, the grate gave away and hit the water below, where it sank quickly.

“Well, that went well enough”, the vampire dusted off his hands, “as for the next step, I believe a safe hiding spot is needed. You will find a mutual acquaintance of ours waiting about a day up the river, at the White Water Inn. As for the journey… give me a moment.” Rideaux dematerialised again, flying out into the night. Geralt felt he should be surprised, perhaps even angry, but he was too exhausted. If the vampire meant him or Emhyr harm, he could have acted already, so Geralt figured they were save for the time being. While he waited for Rideaux to return, the witcher perused the bags the master spy had dropped. He recognised his backpack, including most potions, the dried food he had purchased upon his arrival in the capital, and a change of his old, worn clothing. The vampire must have grabbed the bag as it was. Finding his spare set of clothes inside, he decided to change Emhyr into something less conspicuous than a nightshirt. At the bottom of his bag, he found a small pouch of dimeritium dust, which he hung around Emhyr’s neck.

He had just finished when a series of sloshing sounds, followed by a dull knock, announced the return of Rideaux. Geralt looked out of the hole, spotting the vampire sitting in a skiff. He had the stranger with him. Picking up Emhyr, the witcher lowered the unconscious man down into the arms of the other two men. The boat shook precariously, but somehow they managed to get all four of them onto, rather than into, the water.

“It’s time I took my leave”, Rideaux bowed lightly, “I will be in touch as soon as I can, once the situation is save.” He gazed at the Emperor for a long moment, then raised his eyes to his comrade and the witcher. “Give my greetings to Regis, he has spoken most highly of you. And stay out of sight. I expect we will see each other soon. If I cannot make it myself, I will send Cynthia. Adieu!”

And with a last tip of the head, Rideaux disappeared into a cloud of mist. If the witcher had not been surprised before, he certainly was baffled now. The world was smaller than it seemed. Geralt put his backpack down by the Emperor in the bow of the skiff, and with an afterthought, covered the man with the quilt he had taken along.

“Geralt of Rivia”, he held his hand out to the stranger.

“Devlin aep Meara”, the other shook his hand. Then he took the rudder, while the witcher manned the oars. Silently, they turned the skiff into the current and left the lights of the capital behind.

 

 


	3. Stalemate

_21 st Velen, Dol Blathanna_

 

Tor Blathanna lay silent, the residents of the elven keep just waking up, when Yennefer of Vengerberg, accompanied by a hooded woman, demanded entry to the tower. The queen had been alerted, and hasty preparations had been made to serve breakfast for several people. Ciri was pacing the room where the Lodge had met last, and Yen felt like doing the same. Her emotions barely in check, she leaned on a sideboard, waiting for her sisters to gather.

Unsurprisingly, Rita arrived first. Her face was sympathetic, and she briefly apologised for not interfering with the plans of the others. The situation for mages and nonhumans, she explained herself, was intolerable. With all personal reservations about the means, she could only endorse the ends of their sisters’ endeavour. Ciri refused to accept her apology, but she did not argue further either. Rita had the sense not to address Yennefer in that moment.

Ida and Francesca arrived second. They did not acknowledge the others past a nod, and sat at the high end of the table to break their fast. Rita did not join them. Triss came third, and she spoke briefly to Ciri. About what, Yen could not hear. Then she walked over to Yen.

“Was all this truly necessary?” the red-haired sorceress shook her head, and Yen flinched a little.

“Do I need to explain myself to you?” she snapped.

The redhead smiled sadly: “Maybe. I hope you can live with your choices. I know I struggle with mine.”

Yen did not deign her words with a reply, and Triss sat next to Rita. They waited for a while longer, then Ciri slumped down with a huff and began to eat. Rita and Triss joined her. Yen did not have any appetite.

Philippa, Keira, and Fringilla took their time, and when they came they did so together, haughty-faced and proud. With deliberate slowness, Yen sat down at the short end of the table facing the elven queen, next to Rita. Philippa, barely twitching, sat next to the queen, while the others took up the remaining chairs. This meant that Ciri was left sitting between Ida and Keira. Whereas the Aen Saevherne seemed at ease, Keira certainly appeared just a little nervous in the vicinity of the ash-blonde.

“We have”, Philippa began, when Ciri interrupted her.

“You – have”, the ash-blonde yelled, “absolutely no right to consider me part of your little group. And I demand that you release my father from this curse right now.”

Yen observed the faces of her sisters in the silence that followed Ciri’s outburst. Rita had a rather proud look on her face, and Triss’ face was soft as she nodded to herself. Unsurprisingly, Keira and Fringilla looked waspish, while Ida was calm. Philippa’s angry look was equally predictable, though what Yen had not expected was the look of pure rage on Francesca’s face.

“How dare you,” the elven queen hissed, “you irresponsible little girl, assume that you are in any position to make demands from us? We, who have laboured to keep a world together you discarded for an easy life. You, who abandoned the duties fate bestowed on you? You will not speak to us in such a way.” Her tone could have turned summer into winter. Even Yen felt a little cowed. Ciri, by all appearances, was not. He stood up from her chair, which fell over behind her, and stalked right over to Francesca.

“My fate? Are old prophecies all you cling to, to give your existence meaning?” Francesca paled in anger, and even Ida’s usually calm face had taken an unhealthy hue.

“Ladies”, Philippa said, equally rising, “perhaps we should clarify some facts before we make baseless accusations about who can make demands, and who cannot.” The last word was spoken into the direction of Ciri, who frowned, folded her hands over her chest, and waited with a raised eyebrow.

“As you have learned so far,” Philippa continued, “we deem it necessary to prevent General Morvran Voorhis from seizing the throne. The only way to prevent this in the long run is to present a candidate for the succession who has a stronger, ideally unchallengeable, claim to the throne. I might add”, she looked at Ciri, “that the consequences that follow from this are not meant as a personal affront, and if there had been any choice, we would have favoured a more … willing candidate.”

Ciri looked at Philippa with utter disgust.

“We need a person on the imperial throne who takes the lot of mages and nonhumans serious, and while we understand you have no ambition to rule, we are perfectly happy to undertake the ruling part for you, if you wish so. Our council is readily offered, and we care about your well-being as Empress.”

At that, Ciri huffed in disbelief.

“In exchange, we will retract the curse from the Emperor,” Fringilla added while Philippa sat back down. Ciri, still standing, stared at her wordlessly. She shook her head, laughing darkly.

“And you seriously believe”, she looked around the assembled sorceresses, “that I care enough about Emhyr’s fate to let you blackmail me into becoming your puppet Empress? You have to be insane!” She leaned back from the table and grabbed her sword, which had fallen to the ground with the chair it was hanging from.

“We had hoped you would care about thousands of innocent lives”, Philippa began, but Ciri cut her off.

“I’m done here. Unless”, she turned around once more, “somebody would like to apologise and bring Sara here. In that case I might bring in a good word with my father to let you all live and perhaps even put in some effort to improve the situation for nonhumans. No? Well then negotiations are over!” Ciri donned the blue cloak, covering her head. “Let’s go, mother.”

Yen got up, eyeing her sisters with an unreadable face as she grabbed Ciri’s hand and they teleported back to the palace. The knowing look on Keira’s face, the superior smile of Francesca, and the indulgent one of Philippa’s made her think that they would see each other again sooner rather than later.

~*~

_At the same time…_

With the first daylight, the coastline of Baccalá had come into sight in the distance, and with it an assembly of ships under the flag of Vice-Admiral Trahe. Var Snyder was less than amused, having lost half of his fleet in the storm only to be welcomed by a second fleet awaiting him in battle formation. They had calculated that the forces Trahe commanded were roughly equal to theirs, but the ranged weapons mounted on the harbour fortifications gave reason to worry, even if they won the battle on open water. The admiral had chosen to stall their approach, not in the least to disguise for as long as possible the losses they had suffered in the storm. Expecting a larger force, Trahe was unlikely to leave the cover of the citadel. As Roche understood it, the admiral intended to wait until scouts sent to shore returned with news from the capital, before deciding on the best strategy.

In tense silence, the ships lay anchored in the shallow water near the coast. Few men were on deck, and there was only the pink haze of dawn to keep the soft rolling of the waves company. The Temerian sat hunched against the bow of the ship, rolled into a rough blanket against the cold moisture of the morning air. His stomach felt sour, and he could not quite place whether it was the lingering sea-sickness or anxiety about fighting on the accursed water. Morvran was curled up in a similar fashion next to him, mulling in his own thoughts. Neither man could sleep the previous night. They had just sat there in tentative company, without speaking a word, barely touching at the shoulders. With a sigh, Roche leaned a little further over, imagining the warmth of the other. With the slightest movement, he felt Morvran shift is weight back to him. A drop of salty water landed on Roche’s cheekbone. He sighed wearily as a light rain began to fall, ducking closer to the hull of the ship.

The hours dragged on. The watch was relieved, and the pale sun has risen past its peak in the sky, when low commotion could be heard. With stiff limbs, Roche rose to look across the railing. Through the drizzle, a few figures could be seen moving at the shore. Some minutes later, splashing noises became louder. One of the scouts’ tenders had returned, and with it a woman Roche had seen before: it was the mage who had saved them from the storm. Morvran, who had gotten up as well, seemed to recognise her too.

“Madame Apeldoorn,” he greeted her hoarsely, and she curtsied briefly.

“I bring a message from Rideaux, General. Could we talk in private?” she just said and turned towards the stern.

The general nodded, motioning for Roche to follow. They made for the captain’s cabin, where the admiral was still bent over his log. He appeared surprised to see the woman, but Roche could not make out whether the man was pleased or distressed. Most of the time, Snyder had as much facial expression as a rock. Once the door to the cabin closed behind them, Madame Apeldoorn produced a waterproof skin from her bag, revealing a sealed letter, which she delivered to the general. Morvran’s face took on a look of contemplation as he perused the writing. His expression then quickly changed from disbelief, to fury, dismay, and then determination. Silently, he passed the letter to the admiral, and then to Roche.

\---

_Esteemed General Voorhis,_

_I must not waste time on pleasantries in his dire hour. Foul magic has befallen the Emperor, leaving him bereft of any capacity to act. His enemies, it appears, seize on the opportunity: I suspect that someone within the Emperor’s innermost circle is planning to murder the Emperor and yourself. Their support derives from the High Command of the Military. The Emperor has been moved to a save location. Do not approach the capital under any circumstances. We are working hard to resolve the situation as swiftly as possible._

_Further communication be best sent with Cynthia. Faithfully,_

_VdR_

\---

“It is fortunate we waited, then,” Snyder sighed. Roche could not agree more. The general folded the letter back into the cover that Apeldoorn provided, and stalked outside, banging the cabin door. The woman pulled a sympathetic face, while the admiral called for some of his lieutenants. Roche followed Morvran outside. Looking around, he could not find him, but a sailor pointed him the way to the hold. Climbing down the ladder, he followed a muffled string of curses down to the hold. Ves, leaning against a wall knowingly pointed further down the next ladder. He asked her to keep an eye on their privacy, then descended into the lowest part of the ship. He found the general near the magazine, arms braced against a pile of boxes, head hanging. He had fallen mostly silent, and only a quietly hissed ‘ysgarthiad’ made it past his lips once or twice. He looked up once when he heard Roche approach, but did not look up again. Gently, the Temerian placed his hands onto the general’s shoulders to give them a few firm squeezes. Morvran huffed and leaned back. Vernon wrapped his arms around him from behind.

“Wait, they might see”, the general muttered with a vague gesture upstairs.

“Ves is guarding the hatchway. We are alone,” he suggestive breathed into the neck of the other. With a sudden forceful movement, Morvran spun around and kissed him harshly. The general’s hands fluttered over his jerkin, opening the ties. His hands were cold on Roche’s skin. Engaged in a skirmish of the lips, they fumbled long enough to get a little bit of skin. Morvran pinched his nipple, whereupon the Temerian carefully bit the lip of the other. It would leave no noticeable marks. His hands then moved to the general’s breeches, squeezing his manhood through the cloth.

“Gnn,” the general moaned into his neck, clothing muffling the sounds he was making. Meanwhile, Roche had freed his cock from its confines.

“Shh,” the commander whispered softly, brushing his lips once more over the exposed neck of his lover, “silent now.” Then he lowered himself to his knees and licked his palm, giving the cock in front of his face a few leisurely pulls, before wrapping his hand around the base. Looking up, he found Morvran’s eyes wide and full of want. With a smirk, he licked his own lips, before wrapping them around his teeth as he placed his mouth on his companion’s cock. He licked him gently at first, flicking his tongue around the tip at irregular intervals. Then he began to suck him in earnest, moving his hand for additional pleasure. Looking up when he withdrew his mouth once to breathe more freely, he found Morvran biting his own sleeve, red-faced and straining. Sucking his own finger, Roche reapplied his hand and mouth, while the other hand moved further between the general’s legs. Morvran widened his step eagerly, once he felt the probing touch beyond his balls. The slick digit gently played with the wrinkled opening, caressing just the outsides, occasionally dipping just a little. A meowling sound was not entirely muffled when the general gasped for breath once, ending in a low moan. Encouraged, Vernon sped up his motions once more, sucking and licking in pace with the motions of his hand. The other hand cradled the general’s tight balls. Morvran’s hand came down on his shoulder, and knowing the cue, Roche withdrew his mouth and swiftly rose to his feet. Never letting go of his companion’s cock, he hugged him from the side, embroiled in another passionate kiss, when a few more jerks of his hand brought the other over the edge. Come spurting over the side of one of the crates, Morvran slumped against him, slightly breathless.

Gently, they kissed some more. Then the general tucked himself away, extending a questioning hand to his lover’s belt.

“Another time”, the older man muttered, ignoring his own want. It was not the time or place for extended encounters. Straightening their clothes, they waited a few more moments to calm their breath. With a last lingering kiss, they parted and Morvran left the hold first. When Roche followed after a minute, Ves, still standing by the hatchway, raised a knowing eyebrow at him. After all those years, she knew his tastes too well. He huffed, unable to fight a blush. Ves gave him a pitying look, which made him suddenly feel defensive.

“We’re all in deep shit”, she said quietly, “you know that.”

“I know,” he replied tersely.

 

 


	4. The Flight

_Nilfgaard, the river Alba, upstream of the capital, the morning of the 21 st Velen, 1285 during the glorious abduction of Kaer’zer Emhyr_

 

The Alba was a wide and shallow river. Sandy beaches and islands full of grasses and birds drifted past, rising up into gentle hills on both banks. The skiff had long passed by the outskirts of the capital, one of many smaller boats that carried goods upstream. In Geralt’s back, the sun was just starting to rise, making the mists on the water sparkle like silver dust. All night they had rowed, afraid that someone might follow them, but nothing had disturbed their journey. With heavy arms, the witcher let the oars drop, surveying his surroundings. On both banks, he could make out villages and noble residences, never far apart from another. Every hour or so, a bridge crossed the river. There were many inns and fishermen’s huts along the way, yet they had not dared make halt at any of them, recognisable as some of them were. But his strength had ultimately left him, and they would need to rest. Devlin aep Meara had collapsed in the rear of the boat some hours ago, mumbling about a long time without sleep.

A small distance ahead, Geralt spied two longish sandbanks in the middle of the river. Small trees and bushes were growing on the stretches of land, and would provide at least some cover. With the last of his willpower, he steered the skiff between the sandbanks, jumped into the shallow water, and dragged the boat under a thicker patch of branches hanging over the river. He found a rope to tie the boat to the tree. Meara had woken up, but made no complaints about their halt. He helped the witcher secure the boat, then disappeared into the bushes. Geralt stretched out along the bottom of the boat, next to where the Emperor was sleeping. He was thirsty and hungry, and he could only imagine that Emhyr was as well, so he scooped some of the river water into his hands and drank. Then he found an empty potions vial in his pack, which he used to carefully bring some fluid down the Emperor’s throat. A lesson or two he remembered from Nenneke proved to be helpful to make sure the sleeping man swallowed without choking. He contemplated eating himself, but decided he needed to rest his eyes even more urgently. Watching the morning sun play with the leaves above him, he felt tired, but worried about falling asleep too deeply to awake to a potential threat. Intending to wait for Meara to return, he focussed on his breath, and began to meditate. Coming to rest the first time since he had left the boat in Baccalá, he remembered his promise to Corinne that he would find Sara as quickly as possible. Testing if he could actually reach the Emperor’s dreams, he concentrated on Emhyr’s presence.

~*~

The woods were dark and quiet, mists gathering between the gnarled roots of tall trees. In the distance, the witcher could hear the blast of a horn, the barking of dogs, and stomping of horses. A hunting party, perhaps a mile away. He focussed on his immediate surroundings, his senses: the air was neither cold nor warm, the smells of moss and earth intense. A gurgling sound indicated a stream nearby. He followed the sound, and indeed, a creek ran through a crack in the ground. The dim moonlight light that fell through the thick canopy of trees sparkled on the running water. He knelt to drink when he heard another sound. It came from upstream: breaking twigs, panting, splashing noises of a two-legged being running through the water. Careful, the witcher rose back into a crouch and drew his swords. The splashes came nearer, and dashing through the columns of weak light that hit the water, he saw the outline of a smallish humanoid scampering along the stream. The figure came closer while the witcher remained still. It had almost reached the spot the witcher waited, when it spotted the other and skittered to an inelegant stop, slipping on the wet pebbles of the bed of the stream and falling into the water. Where it had fallen, the moonlight touched the face of the being, revealing glowing yellow eyes and a long snout amidst a head covered in spikes. The witcher readied his blades, but the creature just squealed in panic and crawled backwards, away from him. Geralt dropped the blade a little, peering into the dark spot where the being had disappeared, when he saw it getting back to its feet and running away, further downstream. In pursuit, the witcher saw that the creature wore ragged clothes, the stained remains of a light shirt, and dark breeches. It was barefoot. Following at a leisurely pace, he noted that the being was limping; its gait was unsteady. He could have caught it easily, but to Geralt it did not seem to pose any threat. Rather, he felt curious about its nature. So he remained on the trail, when once more he heard the blearing of a horn, this time closer behind him. The creature, running ahead of him, cried once more, perhaps in fear, and quickened its pace. But still, the witcher kept up easily. They reached the light of a clearing, the moon high above, when the being suddenly collapsed in a pained squeak that soon enough turned into a human moan.

Slowly, the witcher approached, swords sheathed and hands raised in a pacifying gesture. In the high grasses of the clearing, he found a young man, really just a boy, curled up and shivering. He was clothed in the rags of the creature, feet bare and bleeding. A long scratch ran over his shoulder, leaves stuck to his dark hair.

“Hush,” the witcher whispered, crouching beside the boy. Lightly he shook the shoulder of the child. It flinched under his touch, drawing back and hissing like a wild animal. Moonlight fell onto its face, and Geralt saw the dirty and scared face of a boy, light-skinned with large, dark eyes, staring at him in fear and confusion.

“I’m not here to hurt you”, Geralt said softly. The barking of the dogs was coming closer. He could hear their running bodies break through the thicket. The boy did not reply, but his eyes darted past the witcher in terror. “They are hunting you, aren’t they?” The boy nodded carefully, wary eyes fixing on the witcher.

“Can you help me?” the boy asked, fear warring with distrust and hope of his delicate features. “Can you take me away from here?”

Geralt mustered the boy carefully. Something about his expression seemed awfully familiar. The proud stare covering anxiety, the pulled-down corner of his mouth. The earnest, too-old eyes for a boy his age. Just like Ciri. With a tight heart, the witcher nodded and helped the boy up, whose knees promptly buckled. Gently, Geralt picked him up. Holding the boy close against his chest, he started to run. He could already hear the wild breathing of the hounds, the whips of the hunters as they drove the horses on. He ran, following the stream, while the ground to his sides rose. The riverbed turned into a small canyon, growing ever narrower. Eventually, he had to run through the water, the hunting party still on his heels. The walls of rock came ever closer, when ahead of them, Geralt saw nothing but rock. The river disappeared in a narrow opening in the cliff. The walls were steep, impossible to climb. The boy in his arms whimpered as Geralt set him down on the ground to pull his sword. Already, the shadows of the dogs were dashing towards them. He cleaved through the first, and disposed of a second soon after. They kept coming, when suddenly the sword in his hand gave and burst just above the hilt. The boy, attacked by a dog that had made it past the witcher, screamed in terror and pain. Desperately, Geralt ran over to him and wrestled the hound away. Unable to do anything else, he carried the boy into the narrow end of the canyon, where he cradled him against his chest to shield him from the beasts. He could feel their hot breath in his neck, but somehow … somehow the pain never came. The first sunlight lit up the canyon. Geralt kept breathing, the boy curled up against him, still gasping for breath. “Shh,” the witcher whispered, carefully stroking the boy’s back, “It’ll be alright. I’m here with you.”

“I realise that. Now unhand me”, the adult voice of the Emperor grumbled against his chest.

~*~

Devlin returned to the skiff after taking a leak on the sandbank. He had taken the opportunity to wash, towelling himself off with his shirt as he walked back to the boat.

“Hey, you!” he yelled, breaking into a run as he saw a man standing near the boat, “get the hell away from here!” The rising sun reflecting on the water briefly blinded him. When he could see again, the man was gone. Confused, he looked around to see where the stranger had disappeared to, but he could not even find footprints in the wet sand. Had he imagined him?

“Witcher”, Devlin asked, intending to wake the man who lay curled up beside the Emperor. But the man did not respond. Carefully, he shook his shoulder. Then less carefully. Nothing roused the witcher. He lay still, oblivious to the world. Uneasy about what had just transpired, Meara dropped his plan to sneak into the next village and find some food. Instead he untied the boat and steered it back into the main arm of the river. The White Water Inn was about half a day ahead of them.

 

 


	5. Friend or Foe?

_21 st Velen, afternoon in the capital_

Given the number of guards on duty, it was inevitable that someone spied the two women immediately when they teleported into the private palace garden. They were escorted to the parlour. Reinard, Peter, and Vattier himself stood around the map table, deep frowns on their faces. He was the first to notice the women’s arrival.

“We must speak with the witcher,” Yennefer of Vengerberg broke the tense silence without preamble, announcing their arrival to the other men present. Peter whirled around in surprise, almost dropping a shawl he’d been holding. Reinard remained turned away, albeit is shoulders tensed visibly.

“Lady of Vengerberg,” the chief chamberlain greeted in a hoarse, uncertain voice. Going by the frown on her face, the sorceress immediately noticed the discolorations on Peter’s neck, visible where the shawl had dropped. The chamberlain coughed, and Reinard wordlessly handed him a cup to drink iced water from, finally turning around to face them. The commander’s usually calm face was red, distorted by fury.

“I’m afraid there has been an incident,” he said in lieu of greetings, “involving the witcher.” He raised his eyebrows at Yennefer; then his gaze landed pointedly on Peter.

“What is that supposed to mean?” the Emperor’s daughter asked bluntly, folding her arms. Vattier could not help admire the similarities in tone and posture. The apple did not drop far from the tree.

“The witcher attacked him when he abducted the Emperor,” Reinard grit out. The commander of the guard’s nerves appeared rather frayed as he began to stalk towards Yennefer. “And I’d like to know who put him up to that.” His eyes met hers in a hard, searching stare.

The sorceress, as was her habit, stared right back, frosty and unflinching: “I hear of this matter for the first time; thus I cannot possibly hope to be able to explain what may have happened. Would you care to enlighten us to the conclusions you have arrived at?”

“Peter?” Reinard huffed, gesticulating to the other.

The chamberlain cleared his aching throat gingerly. “I was keeping an eye on His Majesty’s sleep, when the witcher entered the room. I was mildly suspicious, because he did not announce his presence, when after a few lines of conversation he attacked me. I must have lost consciousness”, he began to cough again, sipping from his drink. “When I came to, they were gone.”

“We found Peter on the floor of the hidden room beyond the bed chamber”, Vattier took over, his hands folded before his chest, “and the cabinets there in a disarray. The Emperor keeps important documents in this room, and one appears to be missing. The guards outside the bed chamber were found unconscious in a linen closet nearby, and obviously, these is the plain matter that His Majesty has been abducted.”

Reinard began to pace: “We are still searching the palace, but we suspect they are long gone. A grid sealing one of the tunnels under the palace towards the river was found missing. That is most likely the route by which he escaped. Somebody with a boat or magical abilities must have aided him. So far we have found no witnesses. Which throws up several questions, including how the witcher knew of the secret room and passages, as well as who his accomplices are. There are not many options.” With that sentence, Reinard looked at Yennefer.

She frowned at him. “Do you really think that if I intended to capture the Emperor, I would need the witcher’s help? This is preposterous!” Her voice was haughty, but Vattier felt a treble in her voice that suggested the sorceress was caught off-guard.

“There is something else you may have missed,” he added in a calm voice. Peter coughed again, and Vattier waited for him to finish, while Reinard and Cirilla were radiating impatience. The sorceress had better control over her features, but he knew her well enough to interpret the tense shape of her mouth. “General Voorhis and the Admiral’s fleet, carrying the Alba Divisin, have returned from the north. They are currently anchored just outside of Baccalá. It appears that Vice-Admiral Trahe refuses to give them access to the port.”

Yen swallowed visibly. Next to her, Cirilla cocked her head: “And why would the Vice-Admiral do that?” There was a calculating silence.

Reinard spoke at last, his voice grave: “An informant has provided urgent news to the High Command of the Military, indicating a plot to assassinate the Emperor. Trahe, amongst other commanders loyal to His Majesty prefer to delay the General’s arrival until the Emperor is returned to a condition to defend his rightful position. Field Marshal var Moehoen is moving his men to the coast as we speak to block the route over land. Our last reports indicate that Voorhis has lost a good part of his force in the storm, and that he has not yet moved the soldiers on land. If that is true, we should be able to contain the threat. Or at least we thought so, until we found the Emperor missing.”

“So you think Geralt is working for Voorhis?” Ciri shook her head, “That is ridiculous. They don’t even know each other.”

At that, Reinard gave her a calculating look: “The General and the witcher have met in Vizima, and also Novigrad, a decade ago. I remember Voorhis mentioning him fondly.” At that, Cirilla’s face hardened, confusion warring in her cold gaze.

“Her Highness also failed to mention that the General and the witcher met quite recently at an army outpost in Velen”, Vattier revealed, pleased to see the tingle of the threat go down the princess’ spine. Blinking, the sorceress looked at the ash-blonde, and Vattier noticed to his intrigue the startled look Yennefer gave the princess, who displayed no small amount of contrition in return. So the sorceress had been left in the dark. Interesting. He would need to have a private word with the princess as soon as possible, before the situation got out of hand.

“Your point being?” the ash-blonde stuck up her chin, glaring at the taller commander. Going by the redness of Reinard’s face, he was truly angry at the princess’ impertinence.

“My point”, the commander grunt out, narrowing his eyes, “is that it is rather suspicious when the lost heiress of the imperial throne emerges out of nowhere at a time her father is accosted from many sides, and then is caught in conspicuous circumstances with a man suspected of high treason, if what Rideaux says is true. It is further rather interesting that His Majesty is afflicted by a magical condition, and his court sorceress, claiming to be unable to break the magic, resorts to bringing that heiress into the palace, together with a man previously embroiled in at least two regicides.”

Throughout Reinard’s speech, Vattier took the opportunity to observe everyone’s reactions: The princess stare was defiant, pride badly hiding a profound vulnerability. There was also anger there, rage in fact. But those feelings had not appeared in response to their confrontation, he thought. No, they had lingered in her stance since she had stepped into the parlour. Something that happened before, then. Devlin had informed him of the general’s and the princess’ encounter in Velen, but the spy had not been able to listen in on the conversation that had taken place. In fact, Vattier only knew that the princess had stormed out of the tent eventually and disappeared with the witcher. The general, and the Temerians seemingly attached to his side, had been completely tight-lipped about the evening. The meagre intelligence did not suggest any sort of alliance between the general and the princess, but even a man as accomplished as Meara might have missed something.

The sorceress, meanwhile, certainly held a secret or two. His scryers had been keeping tabs on her coming and going for a while, but nothing had appeared particularly suspicious until the Emperor had fallen sick. Since then, the sorceress had visited Velen briefly, then Kovir. She had obviously taken the witcher with her on her first trip. She had then opened a portal to Dol Blathanna, surely to talk to Fringilla Vigo at the court of Queen Enid an Gleanna. The scryers had seen the sorceresses appearing in Cintra briefly, a visit that was suspiciously parallel to the reports of the sudden storm that had shaken up the whole coast. To his consternation, the scryers had not been able to pick up on any further journeys. The princess’ abilities evaded their ever watchful eyes. He would need to interrogate the sorceress about the Lodge’s activities, but before that he had another target to accomplish.

As the last person present, Peter Evertsen seemed, more than anything, exhausted. Worry lined his eyes, and Vattier could not fault him for it. Given the close bond the chamberlain shared with the Emperor, any other reaction would have been suspicious. Their eyes met briefly, and Peter have him an almost imperceptible wink. He winked back. It was time to put their plan into motion.

“We find ourselves in a precarious position”, Vattier said, choosing his words very carefully. “there are at least two possible explanations at present: first, it cannot be dismissed that General Voorhis might have grown impatient for the Emperor to abdicate, and is in fact moving against him, as Commander Matsen’s source suggests; second, somebody aware that Princess Cirilla is alive is promoting her ascend to the throne, while intent to remove her from her father’s council.” He paused, observing their faces. The princess was about to speak, but the sorceress subtly motioned for her to be quiet.

As previously arranged, Peter cleared this throat: “At this point, I must make a confession.” Several heads turned at this. “Just before the curse took hold of him completely, the Emperor has confided in me that he put to paper his abdication from the throne, proclaiming General Morvran Voorhis as his only rightful successor. This abdication is the document that was stolen in the Emperor’s private study on the evening of his abduction. We must therefore assume that the party behind this plot is not in fact the General, but somebody favouring the Princess’ rise to the throne, somebody intent to prevent the General from claiming his right.”

Peter retrieved a scroll from an ornate golden chest and showed the imperial seal to everyone, before breaking it. All present had the chance to read. The will, sealed and signed in the Emperor’s hand, named Morvran Voorhis as the next rightful Emperor. Out of the corner of the eye, Vattier observed Yennefer’s and Reinard’s tensing expressions, and the look of slight confusion on the princess’ face.

“Fortunately”, Peter continued, “this second copy of the document was kept in the Temple of the Great Sun. We will thus be able to make the Emperor’s will come to pass. The Imperial Senate has been called in to meet at noon tomorrow, when the abdication will be read. Whoever has conspired against the Emperor will not succeed.”

Vattier averted his gaze from the quiet concern on the face of Reinard, a man he had called friend for many years. When Meara had informed him of the conversation he had overheard at the military academy, Vattier had hoped the spy had been mistaken when he had identified the conspirator’s voice. The involvement of the Lodge had initially pointed to the sorceress, yet he could not clearly identify what motivation Yennefer in person could have to force the princess onto the throne. Whoever among the two was guilty would reveal themselves soon.

 “We must prepare for the council meeting”, Vattier said, keeping his face averted, “Reinard, would you guard the Temple? Peter will return the document to the Inner Sanctum until it can be brought before the Senate tomorrow, and I will reinforce my attempts to find the Emperor. Yennefer, and Your Highness, I expect you will want to be involved in finding the witcher?”

The princess nodded vigorously, and after a glance from her, the sorceress inclined her head as well. Vattier opened the door for the women, and cast a last glance at Peter, whose dark eyes were flickering with the same rage of betrayal Vattier felt burning in his own veins. Soon that rage would find a target.

~*~

 “Shh,” the witcher whispered, carefully stroking the boy’s back, “It’ll be alright. I’m here with you.”

“I realise that. Now unhand me”, the adult voice of the Emperor spoke against his chest. Geralt looked down his own body, finding Emhyr’s annoyed face inches from his own. Belatedly realising that the dogs had disappeared, he let the other man go. Looking around, Geralt realised that with the rising sun their whole surroundings had changed. The forest had disappeared, and where it had once been the land opened into a gigantic battlefield. As far as one could see, dead bodies littered the ground. They wore the colours of Nilfgaard, Redania, Cintra, Verden… Geralt was uncomfortably reminded of the battleground under the curse of Sabrina Glevesig. There were no spectres rising from the dead here, though, only a golden sun beating down mercilessly on the dry ground. Clouds of dust danced across the plains. Emhyr walked away from him, along a narrow path between the piles of corpses. Quickly the witcher rose to his feet and followed the Emperor.

“Where are we?” he called, just catching up with the other before he disappeared in the haze.

“I appear to be trapped inside my head, or in hell,” Emhyr responded without stopping, albeit he turned his head to the witcher briefly, “albeit I cannot fathom why I would conjure up your image to torment me further. Perchance you are yet another element of my penance?”

“I don’t think I am,” Geralt muttered. He felt it difficult to concentrate. Something about this place felt wrong, unreal. He hurried after the Emperor, whose regal black coat fluttered after him. The path tilted upwards, as they climbed a rocky hill.

“The ravine of the hydra,” Emhyr said tonelessly ahead of him. He had come to a halt at the end of a hanging bridge. Taking a few tentative steps onto the rickety structure, he gazed into the canyon. The witcher followed. Beneath them, countless wooden spikes were rammed into the ground. Between them lay the bleached out bones of countless people. A banner with three lightning bolts was fluttering where it had caught on one of the spikes. After a while, without further comment, the Emperor walked on across the bridge.

“You abandoned good men to a terrible fate,” Geralt commented.

“One of my more memorable regrets, yes,” Emhyr replied to the witcher’s surprise.

“Didn’t know you cared.” The witcher’s voice conveyed a challenge.

Emhyr stopped at the far end of the bridge, throwing the man behind him an impatient glare: “The insistence of the northern rulers to execute the commanders of the Vrihedd Brigade ruined the tentative alliance I had been building with the elves for a decade. Not even the creation of an elven state in Dol Blathanna has repaired what was destroyed in those days. With sufficient support from the nonhuman communities, Aedirn could have blossomed under my rule. Yet as it stands, it is bound for civil war before the year is out. We must even rely on Thyssen to install a queen who may be able to unite the country.” Emhyr said with distaste, and continued to rant about politics, which Geralt preferred to ignore. They kept hiking in the hills for an indeterminable amount of time. The witcher had lost all sense of orientation.

“Where are we?” he asked with a strange sense of déjà vu.

“The western Amell Mountains,” the Emperor said, stopping as he reached the peak of a mountain ridge. The sun was burning into their backs. A small river gurgled along the side of the pass. Beyond lay a lush forest.

“Are those the Marnadal Stairs?” Geralt wondered, looking at the valley ahead of them, “And Erlenwald?”

Emhyr nodded, a supreme look of frustration on his face.

“So we are going north?” the witcher prodded further. He waited.

“This land does not behave as the world that we know,” Emhyr eventually replied, beginning the descent with a swift pace. The sun had sunken below the mountains in their back, and by the time they had made it into the forest, dusk was falling.

“We should make camp,” the witcher suggested, looking around for a suitable spot.

“It will not change anything,” the Emperor spoke in defeat, “there is no way out. It all goes in circles.” He did not apply himself to any task while the witcher gathered some firewood under a broad tree with low branches. He had just started to light a fire, when at a distance, he heard the bellowing of a horn, and the stomping of hooves, accompanied by the bark of dogs.

A cold mist rose from the soil as the last light of day disappeared. Before his eyes, Geralt found the Emperor shrinking. His back bent, and spikes grew from his skin. He howled while his clothes ripped. A second time the horn of the hunt ripped through the calm of the forest. The hedgehog whimpered and ran into the forest. Geralt cursed, and followed. Together they bolted through the trees, when they suddenly reached the treeline and stopped. Before them was nothing but a yawning abyss. In some distance along the cliff, Geralt saw the outlines of a large citadel.

“No,” he whispered, recognising the shape of the towers and walls, the tall gates. Stygga. But it had been destroyed. The Lodge had obliterated the accursed place in an explosion that could be felt from Mettina to Oxenfurt. Ciri…

“Don’t go there,” Emhyr’s inhuman, tormented voice rang after him, pleading. But he ran, as fast as he could, towards the citadel. There were no full 5000 soldiers of the Impera Brigade surrounding the citadel like the last time they had been there, nor could he find any member of his hansa. The stairs leading into the castle, however, were just as slick with blood. On the uppermost stair lay the mangled corpse of a naked, ash-blonde girl. Muttering “no” over and over, the witcher sunk to his knees beside her. Behind him he heard Emhyr coming to a halt. Above the open doors, the iron hand of a large clock struck midnight, and with terrifying cracking noises, the hedgehog transformed back into a man.

Emhyr, clad in the torn white shirt and black breeches, feet naked and bleeding, lay on the reddend stairs below, staring up at the witcher with pain and horror in his wide dark eyes. Geralt felt his anger surge as he drew the sword, advancing on the prone man.

“What have you done?” he yelled. He experienced the situation almost like a third person, looking over his own shoulder. His body stood tall and bulky, leaning over the Emperor like a vengeance demon. Emhyr, white shirt soaking up the red of the blood spilled on the stairs, had bowed his head. Gone was the pride of the great Emperor as he shakily crawled up the stairs, past the threatening figure of the witcher.

“Don’t you dare, don’t you even dare touch her! You monster, you vile and disgusting excuse of a father!” the witcher yelled, but somehow his body did not obey him. Not even his voice did. Meanwhile, the Emperor had reached his daughter’s dead form, tenderly caressing her cold cheek. With a broken sob, he cradled the corpse in his arms, whispering self-recriminations and apologies.

Almost as if moving in water, the witcher fought the powers that kept his body in place, sword high above the Emperor’s neck. The weapon clattered to the ground, skidding down the slippery stairs. Then, slowly, Geralt lowered himself, hot tears running over his cold cheeks, as his hand came to rest on Ciri’s bare shoulder. There they sat, huddled around the violated body of their dead child, bound in their anguish and oblivious to the world around them.

“Why?” the witcher asked, empty-voiced, unseeing.

Unbeknownst to either of them, a blue-skinned small person was hiding on the battlements of the citadel, watching with a deep frown on her face.  She enjoyed the hunt, running through the forest with the monster. The dogs were almost as fun as the giant chicken. But since the witcher had turned up, the dreamer had become distracted from their play, going back to the sad places in his nightmares. It was a pity indeed that she had to keep the old wolf around, but the nasty witches had insisted. Sucking on her bottom lip, Sara began to think up a new game for them to play. Without them, the dreamer’s nightmares where simply too depressing.

~*~

_Simultaneously, near the coast of Baccalá_

 

A single boat had left the port of Baccalá, heading towards the admiral’s fleet. Morvran Voorhis lowered the spyglass, furrowing his brows. He handed the glass back to the admiral, and walked a few paces over to Roche.

“It’s the Field Marshal,” he answered the question on the Temerian’s face. Grimly, they waited for the small ship to reach them. A skiff was let to water and a handful of men came on board under the white flag of negotiation.

“General Voorhis, Admiral var Snyder,” var Moehoen greeted, and the commanders bowed formally. The admiral motioned for them to retreat to the cabin. It did not take long for them to return, but Roche thought it felt like half an eternity of pacing the desk. Ves eyed him sceptically, and Roche was about to pick a fight with her, when the cabin door opened and the commanders stepped out. They clasped hands, and the field marshal returned to his ship.

“What happened?” Roche approached Morvran the moment it was permissible. The general’s face was hard to read, even for him.

“We are expected for a Senate Meeting at noon tomorrow. The Field Marshal guarantees free passage, and shelter in the citadel for the night,” Morvran summarised.

“And you believe that?” Roche wondered.

“No,” the general replied in a very low voice, “but I don’t see what other options we have. We are hopelessly outnumbered, unprepared for battle, and even if we were to win in combat, our endeavour would only lose supporters and legitimacy, at worst ending in civil war.”

“So what do you propose?” the Temerian rubbed his temples, staring at the murky skyline of the capital, just visible on the horizon.

“This fight cannot be won with the sword,” Morvran spoke, deep in thought, “and the Senate is a battleground where other weapons are sharper.”

Roche gave him a weary half-smile: “Now or never?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Vrihedd Brigade, a Scoia’tel unit that fought for Emhyr, was executed at the Ravine of the Hydra. Of all the Scoia’tel commanders sentenced to death, only Isengrim Faoiltiarna, and Iorveth survived. Emhyr abandoned the unit to imprisonment and a gruesome death as part of a peace treaty (Peace of Cintra, end of second war) he never meant to keep in the long run. The three lightning bolts are the banner of the Vrihedd (Freedom) Brigade.
> 
> Stygga citadel is where Vilgefortz fought Ciri at the end of the fifth book, and she met Emhyr for the first time.
> 
> Morvran Voorhis is famous for saying “he could win a war without a single sword”. (wikia)
> 
> Emhyr in his young years hears a prophecy that his salvation will lie beyond the Marnadal Stairs.


	6. Bait

_21 st Velen, early evening in the capital_

 

“We must make haste,” Rideaux said, briskly leading them down into the bowels of the palace. Ciri stumbled after Yennefer, asking about where they were going. She was getting really impatient, when they entered a study down an empty corridor, and the master spy closed the heavy wooden door behind them.

“We can talk here,” he muttered, dragging one hand through his hair.

“What is happening here?” Yen pressed.

“First I would appreciate if you filled me in on your visit to Dol Blathanna and the role of Fringilla Vigo.” Rideaux folded his hands calmly.

“Fringilla Vigo is behind the curse, aided at least by some members of the Lodge of Sorceresses”, Yennefer began.

At that, Rideaux carefully raised an eyebrow: “And what objective do they have, could you enlighten me to that as well?”

Yen glanced at her, and Ciri huffed in frustration: “They are trying to blackmail me into taking the throne. Apparently they disagree with the choice of General Voorhis as a successor.”

“The Lodge believes that the General will ally himself further with the Knights of the Flaming Rose, resolving the situation in Aedirn at the detriment of nonhumans and mages,” Yennefer explained further.

“And then there is also the simple truth that the current disempowerment of the northern rulers has also disempowered their magical advisors.” Rideaux smiled thinly. The sorceress inclined her head.

“Very true. Philippa has made herself comfortable in Queen Adda’s court, but her ambitions always went higher. Keira must find her limited access to Queen Anaïs rather frustrating. Margarita Laux-Antille and Triss Merigold, I believe, have more genuine motives, and were not involved in the initial plans. For Fringilla herself, I believe the prime motivation is personal revenge. She is the instigator, whereas I believe the others saw an opportunity to turn an act of revenge into something more – politically profitable.”

Their conversation went on, leaving Ciri rather out of it. She glanced around the study for a while; then, bored and anxious to see Geralt, she cleared her throat: “I need to see Geralt, he went to search for a woman named Corinne Tilly in Novigrad.”

The conversation between the sorceress and the spy paused. Rideaux looked at her: “When he came back, Geralt informed me that a godling named Sara was responsible for the curse, and that he and the oneiromancer who came with him wanted to look inside the Emperor’s dreams. The woman is currently kept by the Impera Brigade, and I am afraid it will be difficult to get access to her without rousing Matsen’s suspicion. I really cannot advise it right now.”

“So we are suspecting Matsen of leading a coup? Are you sure?” the sorceress asked, shaking her head.

“We will need evidence, but yes,” Rideaux sighed.

“The godling is under the control of the Lodge,” Yennefer pointed out.

“We need to find her as fast as possible, or irreversible things will happen.” The spy looked grim.

“So the Senate meeting tomorrow in not a hoax?” Yennefer asked.

The spy shook his head: “My sources tell me that var Moehoen has taken the General to the citadel in Baccalá. His life is in danger, as we must now suspect, from both the Lodge and the conservative fraction of the military and nobility.”

“Could you just finally tell me what you know about Geralt’s whereabouts? Don’t you always know everything around here?” Ciri shouted.

The spy frowned. “I believe the Emperor to be rather save with the witcher. Our capacities are needed elsewhere,” Rideaux said in a clipped voice. The ash-blonde snorted and turned away in barely controlled rage.

Yen just shook her head at him: “Ciri might as well go search for them, she should not be seen around here anyhow. I will locate Geralt, with or without your help. Trust me on this, Vattier.” And with those words, she opened a portal and Ciri stormed through first. The portal took them back to Yennefer’s tower.

“We need to find them, and quickly,” Ciri insisted.

“That will not be a problem at all,” Yen sought to calm her while she was rummaging in her desk, “There!” she exclaimed, holding up the figurine of a wolf. She found a map. Setting down the marble wolf, she activated it with a string of charms. It began to sniff around the map.

Ciri looked at it in confusion: “Is this how you found us on Skellige?” she wondered.

Yen nodded: “I have had it far longer than that, but yes, this is how I know where to find Geralt if I need him.”

The wolf wandered around the map, then it stopped and yipped once, before freezing back into stone. Ciri perused the map. “This is near the river, just a bit inland,” she pointed out to her mother.

Yen nodded, her forehead crinkled in thought. She rushed over to a chest of drawers, finding a more detailed map of Nilfgaard. “There, roughly,” she said, comparing the two maps. Her finger stopped over a village labelled “White Water”.

“Is there anything noteworthy there?” Ciri wondered.

“No.” Yen bit her lip, “But Ciri, whatever happens, I will always be here to help you. Never think otherwise.”

“I’ll remember. But I think I’ll just stay with Geralt for a while.” Ciri got up, covering her head with the blue cloak Mererid had given her. She gave her mother a quick hug: “I’m angry, but I still love you.” In a flash of green light she was gone.

~*~

_After dusk/night_

 

The melody of a drinking song could be heard through the closed doors and merrily lit windows of the tavern. The river lay peaceful, gurgling in its bed, when a flash of green light reflected briefly on the water. A few drunk fishermen were sitting on their boat, drinking, when an ash-blonde woman appeared on the wooden jetty of the White Water Inn. One of them frowned, shaking his head. His companions asked him something, and laughed.

Ciri checked that her hood was well covering her features, and walked over to them.

“Good evening,” she called to them, “has the catch been good today?”

The man who had frowned upon her magical arrival looked at her wearily. His friend elbowed him in the side.

“Not bad, miss,” the man offered.

“I have not seen you before,” another asked.

“I’ve come from the capital,” Ciri shared, “I am looking for some friends of mine, we wanted to meet around here. Have you seen any other travellers today?”

The frowning fisherman scratched his beard: “There are many travellers coming by here, miss. What they look like?”

“A strong man with white hair, but the face of a man in his prime - and an ill man with dark hair,” she described them tentatively.

“Maybe,” one of the other fishermen said. They looked at each other.

“Do you know where they went?” Ciri asked hopefully.

“No,” the same man replied, shaking his head, “but there was a third man on their boat, and he was in the tavern last I saw him. Tall chap, all broody.” He pointed at the inn behind them.

“Thank you very much,” Ciri bowed and briskly walked inside the taproom. At the counter, she ordered an ale. Scanning the room while she waited to be served, she looked around. Her gaze drifted over several tables with merry people when she saw a tall man, sitting by himself. He seemed familiar, and it took her a moment to remember that she had seen him in Velen. He had been there when they had fought the crone. Was he one of the general’s men? Then what was he doing here? She had just decided that she would wait until he left to follow him silently, when she found him staring right at her. Quickly, she turned back to the counter. With tense shoulders she listened, and soon enough there were footsteps coming up behind her. The man stood next to her, requesting his tab.

Then he walked outside. Hastily, she finished her ale and dropped a few coppers on the counter, rushing after him. Stepping outside of the inn, she saw him walking down the deserted village street, turning around a corner towards the river. She teleported onto the roof of a nearby house, glancing down, to see him waiting, tucked behind the corner, obviously in wait for her. With a sigh, she teleported back to the ground, on his other side. She had reason to commend his reflexes, for he managed to grab her arm holding a knife to his throat before she could have sliced his throat – not that she intended to.

“Who are you? And why are you here?” she hissed, holding herself against his attempt to push the knife away.

“Devlin aep Meara, in His Majesty’s service,” he grunted, suddenly flipping their arms around and grappling the knife from her. She jumped out of his reach and drew her sword. They eyed each other warily.

“You travelled with Geralt?” she asked, biting her lip. The man did not respond. His eyes were searching her face. “I need to speak to him, urgently.” He frowned. “Do you know where he is? Can you take me to him?”

“How did you find this village?” he asked her.

“Rideaux told me, how else?”

“Hm,” Meara replied. Something must have convinced him, for he loosened his stance and carefully handed her back her dagger, hilt first. “Come.”

She followed him across the bridge, leaving the village behind. On the other bank, a cluster of long buildings was dimly illuminated by a few torches and lanterns. A low wall surrounded the property. A sign hung in the stone arch of the gate: Alba Hospital. There were no guards, and everything was silent apart from the noises of the countryside. Meara led her down a gravel path between two long, two-story buildings. The path led to a small courtyard with a fountain, behind which two lanterns framed the door to a smaller building. A wooden sign read: private. The windows of the house were dark, save for one near the doors. Meara knocked, and a thin old man opened the door. Ciri froze.

“Regis?” she wondered, and pulled back her hood at the nonplussed expression of the vampire. When he saw her face, his eyes lit up.

“Ciri, dearest,” Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy opened his arms, and she rushed to give him a hug. They had not seen each other since the last wintering in Toussaint, some years ago, where many of Geralt’s old friends had come together the last time.

“Is Geralt here?” she asked him. His smile dropping, Regis nodded and let her in. Meara tagged along with a blank expression. “What are you doing in Nilfgaard?” she wondered, following him into the house.

“I went south to care for a friend in distress, as I am sure you remember.” Regis began to account, glancing for a moment at an intricate ring he was wearing. “Another old friend of mine has long lived in the capital, and when we came into this region, he called upon us. He, ah, has some influence at court, and apparently he must have informed the Emperor about my,” he hesitated, “role in the battle of Stygga castle, all those years ago. This,” he waved a hand around, “is a gift from the Emperor.”

“Emhyr gave you work in a hospital?” Ciri asked in confusion, and Regis laughed.

“No, my dear,” he shook his head, “he gave me the means to build a hospital as I always imagined it should be.”

Ciri had to admit she was impressed, and rather surprised: “That was – kind of him.”

“Yes, wasn’t it?”, the vampire had an odd, compassionate look on his face, “There is something you should know, but I think you best see for yourself,” he lit a lamp standing on a sideboard and opened a door into a dark room. Ciri stepped through first. In the dim light that filled the room, once Regis placed the chandelier onto a table inside, she could see a bed, long curtains hanging of the ceiling to give the sleeper privacy. There was a medical smell in the air.

“I keep this room for patients who require intensive care, or have a particular need for privacy and discretion.” Regis said softly behind her, “Take your time. Devlin, why don’t you make some tea, you know where everything is.” Footsteps departed.

Cautiously, Ciri approached the beds. On the left, she could make out the dark hair of her father. His face was still and haggard, frozen in an expression of sadness. His shoulders looked bony against the stark whites of the sheets. While her gaze rested on him, Regis came up with a bowl and cloth, and wetted the Emperor’s lips.

“He can swallow, luckily”, Regis commented in his low doctor voice, “but even with intensive care, giving him the fluids and nutrition he needs is a painstaking process.”

“But you can help, right?” Ciri whispered.

Regis sighed: “I can keep them alive for now, yes, but the longer they lie asleep, the more their bodies will weaken, muscles degenerate.”

“They?” she breathed. Whirling around, she realised there was a second bed behind the curtains. Tucked in just as neatly, she found Geralt, fast asleep with a troubled face. Their conversation had not roused him, and neither did her tentative shake to his shoulder.

“He is caught in the spell that lies upon your father. I am afraid they now share a fate,” the vampire confirmed her worst fears.

“No…” she cried out, collapsing at Geralt’s bed, squeezing his hands desperately. Regis let her, calmly telling her he would wait in his study across the hall.

She cried, in despair, in anger. Before her inner eye, she saw the gloating faces of the Lodge of Sorceresses. Betrayal cut deep into her when she thought of Triss, and Rita. She had never expected much consideration from the others, but that women she had considered friends and mentors had played any part whatsoever in the conspiracy, she could not excuse. And even Yennefer had somehow become involved. There was not a person left she felt she could turn to for advice. Her last hope was lying like dead in the bed before her.

With heavy limbs, she got up and went to search for the study. An open door in the hallway showed her the way, and she accepted another hug from Regis.

“There is something else you need to see,” the vampire said after a moment, and releasing her, he drew a scroll out of his vest and handed it to her. It was made out of thick, luxurious paper, sealed with a golden ribbon and black wax. The seal itself, though, was broken, and the edges just a little bit bent and scuffed. Carefully, she unrolled the document and read.

“Geralt carried this on him, already opened. I thought you might want to know,” the vampire suggested.

She nodded, thoughts reeling.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Geralt’s friend offered quietly.

“Take good care of them for me, will you?” she made him promise.

“And what will you do, my dear?” the kindly vampire wondered, squeezing her shoulders.

“What I must to get them back,” she answered darkly. He sighed, and let her go then.

“I trust your judgment, dearest, but take care of yourself first, Cirilla. That is what they would want. And rest assured I will not let anything touch them.” Regis eyes flared red for a second. She believed him.

 

 


	7. Honourable Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “For Brutus is an honourable man…”
> 
> Chapter Warning!!!: derogatory descriptions of masculinities (homophob-ish)

 

_Simultaneously, 21 st Velen, evening in the capital_

 

‘Let it not be too late’ he hoped desperately. As a cloud of mist, Vattier de Rideaux floated before the altar in the great temple of the Golden Sun. Built of concentric colonnades around a central dome, the building had no walls. A pillar of light shone through a gap in the top of the dome, touching the main altar below. Behind the altar, a broad set of stairs led into the inner sanctum. Heavy gold-plated iron doors prohibited the access to anyone but the highest clergy and select ministers of the state. To his growing trepidation, the doors were shut.

After his chat with the sorceress, Vattier had hurried to the temple to keep an eye on the return of the document. One of the men of the Impera Brigade, now surrounding the complex, had informed him the chamberlain and commander had entered several minutes ago. Ever since the temple lay in complete silence; nobody had returned. This did not bode well. Still in his mist shape, the vampire floated through the gaps in the door.

The inner sanctum was a circular room, just below the altar. Through a hole in the altar, and a set of crystals and mirrors, the light from above was focussed into a thin, golden beam of light in the middle of the room. A large crystal on the ground broke that light into a hundred beams and colours, crisscrossing the space of the sanctum. It was beautiful. A spiral staircase led into the depth of the rock plateau on which the temple was built, down to the necropolis of the Nilfgaardian royal family. But there was no need to descend into the crypts. The traitor stood right before the light, picking up something from a longish golden chest from the floor. It was a carved ivory tube, the one Vattier knew to contain the abdication. The crumbled body of Peter Evertsen lay on the stone floor between them, unmoving. The smell of blood stained the air.

“It pains me to find you like this,” Vattier said in raw anguish, materialising behind his long-time friend Reinard aep Matsen. The silver and golden embellishments on the commander’s armour shone in the moonlight as the man slowly turned around, removing his helmet.

“It is a disappointment for both of us,” Matsen replied with a sigh, “When did you decide to throw in your lot with the merchants?”

Vattier huffed: “When it became obvious that an Empire as vast and diverse as this one has become will learn to bend, or break through its own inability to adapt. The Emperor is a man who would rather break than bend.”

“Adapt?” Matsen shook his head, “Is that what you call it? We are superior to the north in almost all ways, and have sacrificed much to bring civilisation into the farthest reaches of this continent-”

Vattier bared his teeth: “Oh spare me the ideology, I am not a solider in need to be convinced at the eve of battle that the murder he will commit the coming day is for a righteous cause. We have benefitted plenty from the lands seized from the northerners, given to our own officers and nobles. The spoils of war have gone to Nilfgaard, while the costs remained in the north. The uprisings of the northern people are of our own making.”

“And you think by placing a man like Voorhis on the throne that would change? If he holds true to his promise to open trade, let land be bought for money, he will subjugate the whole empire to the greed of merchants. What responsibility does a merchant feel for the people on his country? None, unless they produce his profits! If the Guild of Merchants had not constantly pressed down the tax, we could have pacified the north long ago!”

“With the sword?” Vattier snorted in derision.

“With security, courts, and yes, the men needed to enforce the law. Without them, the promise of civilisation becomes a mockery!” Matsen pointed his finger at Vattier. “Can you deny that? Thousands of men, including my father, gave their lives to see the day come where the Golden Sun would unite the people of this continent. And Morvran Voorhis, the General who prefers to settle disputes with a quill, a purse, or his cock, instead of an honest battle, is supposed to lead us where even Emhyr var Emreis failed? That – that excuse of a man, a soldier, is supposed to become our Emperor?” Matsen talked himself into a rage.

“It is His Majesty’s will, do you really wish to challenge that?” Vattier cocked his head.

“The Emperor has been manipulated! Beguiled by the advocates of the merchants, by Evertsen, damn, by Voorhis himself! Ever since Brenna, they have whispered doubts into his ears. I have enough men guarding the palace doors to hear what is being spoken – and _done_ – behind them. They are seeking to dethrone him, made him abandon the Empress and leave him without heirs – now that Cirilla is alive we have a chance! A better solution, don’t you see?” Matsen gesticulated wildly. Vattier’s gaze fell on Peter, on whom by all appearances Matsen had just vented his anger. The spy cursed himself for ever leaving the chamberlain alone with the traitor.

“You wish to see the girl become Empress?” Vattier asked with disbelief, gathering himself back to the situation, “She has no experience whatsoever. Do you really want a weak queen?”

“She can learn, and in any case, we can provide her with a suitable husband to take over most of her duties,” Matsen said forcefully.

“And who would that husband be?” Vattier asked pointedly, and something flickered over Matsen’s features in the crisscrossing light of the sanctum.

“I see,” Vattier sighed. It always came down to understanding people’s motivations. But something did not quite fit yet: “Then perhaps you would satisfy one small curiosity for me?” Matsen shrugged his shoulders. “Why did you tell the Lodge of Sorceresses about the arrangement between the Emperor and General Voorhis. Was it simply to do the dirty work for you?”

Matsen paused, then frowned: “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“How did the Lodge learn that His Majesty was getting ready to pass the crown onto the General?” Vattier rephrased, carefully observing the other’s face. ‘Tell me’, he commanded, using his powers.

“I have never informed the Lodge of that arrangement,” Matsen blinked, pupils wide and mouth slack.

Vattier stared at him in disbelief: “What is the plan behind cursing the Emperor?”

Matsen drew his eyebrows together: “To put Cirilla on the throne. When the Emperor revealed Voorhis as his successor, we knew we had to act.”

“Who is ‘we’?” Vattier dug further.

“The High Command, the fraction behind Moehoen, Trahe, Vreemde. Landed aristocracy in the Senate. Myself, and the sorceress, Yennefer of Vengerberg.” Matsen answered obediently. It was worse than Vattier had hoped: a coup by a large fraction of the military, supported by the oldest families in the country. Even the Emperor’s guard appeared compromised, nevermind the Sorceress Supreme.

“That will be all,” Vattier whispered, loosening his hold on Matsen. The second the thrall subsided, the commander of the watch stumbled backwards, eyes wide in terror.

“How?” he yelled, eyes searching for an exit. But the gates were behind Vattier. The vampire let his nature show, unwilling to contain his fury any longer. He had to respect Matsen for mostly keeping his composure. A long second went past.

“You will not let me leave this room, will you?” the traitor asked with an empty voice. The vampire shook his head slowly.

“Then you must excuse me for doing what is necessary to prevent the worst,” the commander said, drawing the sealed scroll from the ivory cylinder and holding the thick paper into the central beam of light. It began to smoke immediately, then caught flame.

While the blackening fragments of the paper were still burning, falling apart and floating in the light-speckled air, the claws of the higher vampire had already torn into the traitorous commander of the guard. His body was ripped in two, falling to the stone floor. The fragments slowly rained down on him. Blood gushed over the stone floor, quickly forming a dark red lake on which the falling flames were extinguished, leaving only little pieces of ash to float on the blood. Vattier sombrely noted the eternal look of surprise on Reinard’s face.

“May your soul remain in torment,” he thought.

Stepping back, returned to his human features, Vattier checked on Peter. As he had feared, the life had left the man. A dagger was still stuck in his back, blood oozing very slowly from several stab wounds. Gently, the vampire removed the dagger, shoving it under his belt. Gazing at the second dead friend of the night, the true friend, the friend he had failed to protect, who had gone too early. He placed a cold kiss to his forehead. A truly loyal soul. He would not let it go to waste. Very gently, he began to suck the lingering touches of life from the cooling body. Hours later, he rose, still feeling dizzy. A small golden key, adorned with Matsen’s coat of arms, was still stuck inside lock of the large doors leading into the sanctum. Vattier unlocked the doors from the inside and stepped outside. At the top of the stairs, he found a small number of guards waiting. They appeared alert and nervous. Lieutenant var Attre cleared her throat.

“The seer in the guard tower insists there is something…” she began, breaking off with a gasp when she saw the mess behind him.

“…important we need to discuss,” Vattier finished.

~*~

The inner sanctum lay empty of bodies, but the blood had not yet been cleared away. Ashes of a burned document lay scattered around the beam of moonlight. A hand, gloved in black velvet, carefully picked up a slightly larger fragment of red-stained paper. Matsen had been faster, she thought. Well, it mattered not, so long as the letter of abdication was destroyed.

The news of the death of the commander of the guard had spread quickly. She herself had been alerted the moment she returned to the palace. By the rights of her station, she had been permitted to inspect the sanctum. With a few whispered incantations, she witnessed the past of the paper fragment long enough to see how Reinard Matsen burned it, before the monster had ripped him apart. A convenient ally, albeit she would not miss him too much. More importantly, a gnawing suspicious of hers had been confirmed. Rideaux was not what he presented to the world. Satisfied with the state of affairs, the sorceress opened another portal and stepped through into her tower.

Adjusting the crystals of the megascope, Yennefer called on the others in Dol Blathanna to let them know about the Senate meeting. The schedule had accelerated yet again. Everything now depended on Ciri reaching Geralt in time, and drawing the inevitable conclusion.

 

 


	8. The Swallow and the Cormorant

_The morning of the 22 nd Velen, Inbaelk Tower in the capital of Nilfgaard_

 

She needed fresh air to breath. Ciri stood in the courtyard, feeling just slightly chilled in the cool morning air. The lemon trees bore fruit in autumn, she thought in mild surprise. This country was truly foreign to her. She had discarded her blue cloak. Only a few members of the magical academy were milling about currently, yet already she felt naked without the hood, caught in the eye of the public.

Yennefer had tried to speak to Ciri, but the ash-blonde could not bear to talk to anyone right now. Triss and Rita had come straight to the tower, shame visible on their faces, and Ciri felt oddly grateful for that. Most other members of the Lodge had refused to make an appearance.

“Please come inside”, Triss had asked, standing a couple of feet away from her. And Ciri had nodded, and walked back into the tower. A bath had been prepared for her, and somebody had been called to cut her hair. A maid filed her fingernails, and laid out some very fine undergarments for her. When she approached with the bodice, the look Ciri had given the girl must have been terrifying enough to send her scrambling. Rita had then come into the room, finding Ciri is tears. She had handed her a handkerchief, and then proceeded to tie the laces of the bodice with silent efficiency. From a light wooden box, the headmistress of Aretusa then produced a magnificent black robe. It was primarily made of heavy black velvet, set against red silk lining and embroidery. It occurred to Ciri that the style was rather similar to the clothes her father wore. She doubted that was coincidence. How long, she wondered darkly, had that dress been waiting for her, sown just for this occasion? Rita held out the robe for Ciri and she submitted to the garment. It turned out a bit less restrictive than what she had feared. At least the skirts were long enough that her feet were not visible. She plainly refused another pair of slippers and kept her boots on. Rita seemed to indulge that least bit of rebellion.

When they stepped outside of the dressing room, Yen stared at her with a very emotional face, and Ciri quickly averted her gaze. An open carriage, decorated in the colours of House Emreis had been procured. Triss, Rita, and Yennefer rode with her, the streets coming alive with the rising sun. People passing by were looking at them, talking and pointing. Ciri did not know what to do, so she just stared ahead. Within minutes the tower of Velen came into view. There was a unit of soldiers of the Impera Brigade waiting outside the tower. They respectfully stepped aside. On the steps to the tower she could make out a blond woman in a particularly adorned armour, bowing to her briefly. She walked towards the carriage, while another solider opened the door for them and assisted Ciri out.

“Your Highness, Lieutenant Rosa var Attre” she offered her arm, and Ciri accepted it with the best impression of a smile she could muster. Inside the building she was ushered through a foyer and into a smaller room. Refreshments and seating was provided. They had to wait. Distractedly, Ciri fiddled with a loose thread in the seam of her sleeve.

“I want Sara - now,” she announced, getting up and putting her hands on her hips. The sorceresses looked at each other, and Rita nodded Triss. Triss sighed in relieve. She drew a twig out of her pocket and broke it in half with a whisper. Soon after, a portal opened and Fringilla Vigo stepped through, dragging along the little blue godling. Ciri fixed Keira with burning anger, who let go of the creature.

“Are we done now?” the godling asked, sounding as angry as Ciri felt.

“I will consider our contract fulfilled the moment Cirilla is pronounced as heir and successor to the crown by the Senate,” Fringilla glared at the small creature, holding up a glyph Ciri recognised as a geas, a magical bond. Sara rolled her big blue eyes, shaking her head in misery.

Ciri was about to say something impolite, when a bell chimed loudly.

“It is time,” her mother said faintly. Ciri hardened her mouth and squared her shoulders. Then she walked ahead of the sorceresses through the opening double doors.

~*~

On the other side of the building, in a chamber not dissimilar, Morvran Voorhis sat in an armchair, unmoving. Roche was pacing back and forth, and Ves was rolling her eyes about it. The field marshal had left them alone once they had reached Velen tower, but Roche knew that the soldiers who had come with them were still on duty in or around the building. He could see them keeping guard from the window.

“This smells like a horrible trap to me!” Roche burst forth.

A knock sounded on the door, and after a moment, a sharp-eyed man in noble clothes appeared, accompanied by an elegant lady with red curls. They bowed politely.

“Rideaux,” Morvran greeted, rising from his seat to incline his head in return. “Who is your companion?”

“May I present the Lady Orianna, formerly of Toussaint and now of Nilfgaard, a very old friend of mine? She is accompanying me as a personal favour today. I just briefly wanted to make sure you have arrived safely. I apologise for the mayhem you have found the capital in. The Emperor’s indisposition and the sudden arrival of several sorceresses together with the princess have left us all in a somewhat complicated position.” Roche did a double-take, and Ves gasped audibly beside him. Everybody in the room tensed notably.

“She is here then?” the general asked in an eerily low voice.

Rideaux nodded tersely, his composure stiff: “She arrived just now, to the surprise of everyone, including myself. Several members of the Lodge of Sorceresses are present as well.”

The general nodded, thoughts racing behind his eyes. Roche felt something akin to panic rising in his throat, and swallowed a few times, blinking, and wishing the nightmare unfolding before his eyes would evaporate. It did not. On the one end of all possible outcomes, he saw their work of months fall apart; on the other end, he recoiled at the idea of any ill befalling Ciri. It evaded him why the young woman, hell-bent on playing dead for years, was here at all.

 “You do not appear entirely surprised yourself, though,” he heard the master spy ask carefully. Opening his eyes in surprise, Roche saw Morvran wet his lips, open his mouth to say something, and then close it again. The general then simply smiled, just very slightly.

The chime of a bell echoed through the building.

~*~

Despite his misgivings over her presence, Vattier had to admit that she was radiant. Gone was the witcher who had yelled at him in his office, and come forth had a woman with the stance of an Empress. He observed her striding into the room, straight-backed and with a determined look on her face. Clad into the blacks and reds her father favoured, she was unmistakably the Emperor’s daughter. Her eyes blazed as she walked past the benches of the senators, right onto the podium in the middle of the council chamber. A murmur went through the onlookers. She stood there, waiting with an impatient tilt to her posture for everyone to get seated. The chairwoman of the Imperial Senate coughed once, politely. Cirilla ignored her, raising her voice without invitation or introduction:

“Imperial Senators, and esteemed guests to this meeting. I am Cirilla var Emreis, only child of my father, your Emperor. Your Emperor, my father, who is fighting for his life, assailed by those who seek to destroy his achievements and throw our country into chaos. In times when the peace between our provinces is fragile, many of our citizens suffer, and our enemies are waiting for the slightest vulnerability to rise against us, the leaders of this Empire must stand united under a strong ruler.” She paused. “My father knew this, and when he felt himself succumbing to the sickness his enemies cast upon him, he made the only decision a responsible ruler could make – he decided to pass the burden of leadership onto shoulders he knew would be strong enough to withstand the storms coming to our shores.” Her gaze went around the room, briefly touching Vattier himself, before settling on the sorceresses who had accompanied the young woman. “My shoulders.”

There was some half-muffled shouts rising from the benches.

“Silence!” the chairwoman, Duchess Elysia Eggebracht, shouted, knocking her hammer onto the desk.

In that moment the princess crouched, and to the sudden confusion of the assembled, drew from her boot a rather rumpled scroll of paper. She brought it over to the chairwoman, positing the document on her desk: “This is the letter of abdication the Emperor compiled, just before he succumbed to his sickness. As you may convince yourself, it names General Voorhis his successor – but only in the event his natural heir cannot be located. As you see, the first provision proves to be unnecessary. I am here, and I intend to honour my father’s wish and right by blood to carry the crown of Nilfgaard.”

Vattier looked to Voorhis, who appeared remarkably calm. The chairwoman bowed over the document, scrutinizing the seal and writing.

“On first glance this document appears to be genuine,” she said eventually, “, if in rather rumpled condition. Lady Yennefer, could you verify this documents authenticity for us?” Vattier could not help but think that the sorceress looked slightly caught off guard as she approached the desk.

“Scandalous!” Berengar Leuwarden said. Several members of the Guild of Merchants began to complain as well. More and more glances fell onto Morvran Voorhis, who had remained seated. Vattier saw how some of his close allies, notably the Temerian commander, whispered to him with outraged gestures.

“This situation is unprecedented,” Havard var Moehoen said loudly, coming to stand beside the princess, “But the customs of our country are completely clear on this matter: blood always has precedence. Cirilla var Emreis is the rightful heir, and she has my loyal devotion so far as this document truly does state the will of the Emperor to abdicate.” Moehoen bowed deeply, and stepped a few paces back.

“The document is genuine,” the Sorceress Supreme said into the midst of the ensuing silence, “without a doubt, it is genuine. I cannot find any trace of forgery.”

More shouts among the merchants were heard, demanding further proof, while the conservative fraction was starting to jeer. Vattier considered to intervene, but in that moment, Morvran Voorhis rose from his seat. He approached the princess calmly, slowly drawing his sword from his belt. Moehoen, who had remained at the edge of the podium, made to intercept him, but the forcefully raised hand of the princess stopped him in his tracks. The room seemed to hold its breath for an impossibly long moment.

Then the general sunk to one knee, and offered the sword to the princess. Vattier, for the first time in years, felt completely and utterly shocked. Whatever he had anticipated this day to be, it had come completely different.

“I pledge to thee, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon var Emreis, Imperatrix of Nilfgaard, Queen of Cintra, Lady of Metinna, Ebbing, Gemmera, and Novigrad, Sovereign of Nazair, Vicovaro, and Aedirn, my sword, my loyalty, my service,” the general, until moments before considered to be the next Emperor, bent his head and spoke his vows of fealty. With speechless incomprehension, Vattier glanced over the equally horrified faces of the merchants. Once Cirilla accepted his sword with both hands, the general remained kneeling in front of the – the Empress, Vattier supposed she was in the process of becoming. Now that Voorhis of all people had declared for her, he could not imagine anything stopping it from happening.

 “I accept your fealty, and I thank you for your loyalty, General. Accept a gift of mine in return,” she motioned for him to stand. And then she held out her hand, and he lifted it to his lips, and from a pocket he drew a ring and placed it upon her finger. Only then did he stand, still holding onto her hand.

“I give you the future Imperator of Nilfgaard, King of Cintra, Lord of Metinna…” she began in a loud, clear voice, but it was nevertheless drowned out by the shouts of disbelief and elation echoing through the Senate chamber. The merchants began clapping wildly. Vattier felt a rock drop from his lungs. Nevertheless remaining alert, he saw the complacent smiles drop off the faces of Moehoen and a range of conservative senators. The sorceresses present, surprisingly including Yennefer of Vengerberg, seemed equally aghast. In fact, the Sorceress Supreme appeared completely shocked. He was distracted from her presence when Rosa var Attre appeared on his side, shaking her head in disbelief.

“What just happened?” the lieutenant asked, completely perplexed.

Looking at the new Empress, surrounded by well-wishers seeking to ingratiate themselves as fast as possible, flanked by her smiling betrothed, Vattier could not help but think that he knew exactly who had happened to them: Her youth, frankness, and lack of manners had blinded him at times, but Cirilla was without a doubt completely and utterly her father’s daughter.

And one did generally well to never underestimate the fiery nature of the Hen Ichaer. It has the tendency to unpredictably burst into flames.

 

 


	9. Awakening

_22 nd Velen, early evening, still in the tower of Velen:_

 

 “Finally!” the godling exclaimed, jumping a step away from the Nilfgaardian sorceress, “this was torture, pure mistreatment! His nightmares are horrible. This was the worst contract ever!” She stomped her foot, then looked around the assembled women. “Could you please point me the way to Novigrad, I’d be so obliged!”

“You are Sara, right?” Ciri asked, approaching the godling. Fringilla Vigo was nowhere to be seen. After endless odious hours of fealty vows and brown-nosing, she had managed to escape back into the antechamber where she had waited initially. “Geralt told be about you, and Corinne.”

“Corinne has it coming!” Sara said indignantly, “Which is why I must return to Novigrad post haste, and give her a piece of my mind.” At Ciri’s questioning face, Sara told her she had only worked for the sorceresses to get the money to keep their house, which Corinne worried about. “But no house can be worth these working conditions, mind me!” the godling added. Rita looked rather miffed at that, and Triss seemed to barely keep it together. Even Ciri could not prevent a twitching in the corner of her mouth when she considered the absurdity of the situation. A curse bringing an Emperor to the fall for… a house? Honestly!

“Corinne is at the palace in Nilfgaard, we can go visit her if you want,” Ciri let her know. “I would really like to talk to you about what happened. Can my father and Geralt wake up now?”

The godling looked at her with frustration: “I’m not going back into their dreams, no way. So yes, they can.” Then she pulled a little cloth puppet from her dress. “Be gone, dream!” she huffed. Then she walked over to the nearby fireplace and with gusto chucked the puppet into the flames.

“He is your father, yes?” Sara asked with a knowing look, returning to where Ciri stood. “Complicated relationship?”

“You have no idea,” Ciri huffed. The godling patted her thigh.

“We need to go,” Yennefer said behind her, voice impatient. Coming closer, her mother hissed into her ear: “Are you insane? What have you done!” She looked so angry Ciri thought for a moment she would hit her.

“The right thing,” Ciri said, fixing her green eyes onto her mother’s violet ones, “And now I must find Geralt and Emhyr, and speak to Morvran, and – damn it, there is too much to do.”

“I can take care of Sara, if you wish,” Triss offered, and Ciri thanked her briefly.

“Corinne should be imprisoned in the palace somewhere, please ask Commander Matsen. Oh, Mererid, it’s great to see you”, the valet bowed, looking rather bewildered and pleased at the same time, “I need you to help Triss find Corinne Tilly, and get her a guest room and whatever she needs. I must talk to her and Sara very soon. Morvran!” she walked back into the senate chamber. He appeared caught up in conversation with some important-looking people, unable to hear her over the din in the room. Then suddenly the crowd parted in front of her, and he looked up. Excusing himself from his companions, he walked over to her.

“Can we talk soon, somewhere more private?” she wondered, speaking in a low voice.

“Of course, Cirilla,” he looked at her harried face, pausing for a moment, “Should I call on you at the palace?”

“Perfect,” she nodded, and with an afterthought she added: “Do you need anything else right now?”

He looked at her in puzzlement, then smiled a little: “No. I will soon return to my residence in town, and my companions from Temeria and friends from the Guild are rather intent to celebrate, I believe.”

“So you think all – this,” she motioned around them, “– worked?”

He nodded, bringing his mouth closer to her ear: “I appreciate tremendously that you came to see me last night. As we agreed, we can talk through the details soon. And Cirilla,” he leaned back to considered her with a disbelieving shake of his head, “It will be alright. Go find Geralt and your father. You must be terribly worried about them.”

She nodded: “See you later.” Then she walked back into the antechamber. Her mother opened her mouth to say something, face still furious, when Ciri simply teleported away. Morvran was perfectly right - she needed to see Geralt and Emhyr, and finally be sure that both of her fathers were alright, that the plan they had cobbled together in a small room in the citadel of Baccalá hours before sunrise had worked.

~*~

_In the meantime:_

 

There was a sensation of floating, the scream of the storm ebbing away as Pavetta dragged him into the depth of the ocean. It was almost peaceful there, he thought, as he watched the bubbles rise from his mouth into the murky sunlight that fell into the depth of the sea. He closed his eyes. He was warm, ensconced. His head was heavy, finally resting. A bird was singing somewhere outside the window.

Something was wrong. Blinking against the blinding light that fell through the curtains, Emhyr tried to understand where he was. He had ascertained that it was a bed, but certainly not his own. A smell of herbs hung in the air, and he felt terribly weak. His head hurt something fierce, and the light was unpleasantly bright. Moving his arm against the duvet as if it was made out of lead, he covered his eyes with this hand. Very slowly, he got used to the brightness. His eyes were dry when he blinked them open; his throat parched. He felt famished.

“You are awake,” a gentle male voice said from somewhere close. Carefully moving his hand, he could make out a smallish white-washed room. An elderly man in light clothes stood in the door. He seemed relieved to find him awake: “You must be thirsty and hungry. Just a moment.” The man returned with a cup of broth. It smelled delightful. The man left the broth on the night table. “Do you mind if I assist you?”

Emhyr shook his head a little. The man, clearly a medic of some kind, helped him sit up against the headboard with a few practiced movements. It occurred to Emhyr that the man was much stronger than he looked. With shaking hands, the patient took hold of the small bowl that was offered to him, and drank. It was a precarious process, but further assistance was not required.

“I will provide more broth in a second, but Your Majesty may wish to let the first bit of fluid settle first.”

“What happened, and where am I?” he rasped. His head still felt full of cotton.

“As to where, this is the Alba Hospital, which you kindly gifted to me. Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, at your service. As to what happened, I am not completely informed, but I believe Your Majesty has been cursed. Given the evidence, I believe Cirilla has managed to break the magic. She was here last night, and left in a rather determined fashion.” Alba Hospital… his mind was moving slowly, but he vaguely recalled the name.

“You aided my daughter in the fight against Vilgefortz,” he felt the memories come together, “I owe you immeasurable gratitude for defending her.”

“It was- not my pleasure, per se, but I would not hesitate to do so again,” the vampire smiled, a spark of the powerful creature shining in the benign face of the old man. In that moment, another man walked into the room.

“Witcher,” Emhyr muttered. Of a sudden he recalled the nightmares, the endless, horrible, the – he felt as if underwater, unable to breathe. He was lost, he –

“Emhyr!” the witcher’s voice somewhere much closer said loudly. Somebody was touching his shoulder. Emhyr blinked. He was in the white-washed room. A hospital. The doctor – Regis – was looking at him with slight worry. He turned towards the witcher, who was seated on his bedside, hand still touching his arm. He breathed out shakily and counted to ten, closing his eyes. When he opened them, the witcher was still looking at him, cat-like eyes narrowed.

“We might want to give His Majesty a moment,” the vampire suggested. The witcher nodded, not looking like he agreed entirely. With a gentle squeeze, he let go of Emhyr’s arm. The spot felt warmer than the rest of him. Feeling profoundly exhausted, Emhyr let his eyes slide shut. He listened to the birds again, felt the soft linens of the bed. He needed –

Clenching his fist and not encountering a familiar weight, his heart stopped. His father’s signet ring was gone. Dread blossomed in his stomach. He needed to get up and ascertain what happened at court during his absence. How long had he been out? With undue effort, he opened his eyes again and pushed himself out of bed. Sitting on the mattress, he waited for his head to stop spinning. He stared at the second bed across from him, half hidden behind a screen, only now realising that it was unmade. Somebody had slept there recently. A bag was lying at the foot end. Gingerly getting onto his shaking legs, he made it to the other bed somehow and opened the flap of the bag. There was a folded-up quilt inside, which he vaguely recognised as his own. It was strangely muddy. He pulled it out and let it drop onto the bed next to him. The second item he found was his nightshirt, dirty and torn in a few places. Left in the bag were a few bottles, some knickknacks, and some dried fruits. None of this made sense!

Holding himself up on the bedposts, he made it over to the window. Outside, past a low stone wall, he could see the river. A swarm of ravens was perched on the wall, croaking.

“Your majesty might want to eat some more,” the vampire said behind him, and Emhyr felt his pulse peak briefly.

“Yes,” he replied cautiously, “and I will require someone to inform me of anything noteworthy that has transpired in the empire during my absence.”

The vampire sighed, displaying the face of any doctor Emhyr had yet met when confronted with a patient who refused to recuperate slowly: “In that case, would his Majesty like to get dressed and join us at the table?” Belatedly, Emhyr considered his own state of undress. He wore loose garments, a shirt and wide trousers. They were made out of soft cotton and rather comfortable. A pouch of dust – dimeritium – hung around his neck. Somebody had been thoughtful. The doctor seemed to anticipate his own conclusions when he held out a grey morning robe. It was not much, but it would cover him more appropriately.

With effort he lifted his arms, stuck them into the sleeves and reluctantly accepted the arm offered in assistance. Together, they slowly walked through a short hallway into a comfortable kitchen. At a simple wooden table, he found the witcher bent over a large bowl of stew. Another man he vaguely recalled seeing at court before rose swiftly and bowed.

“Devlin aep Meara, your Majesty.”

“You may sit,” Emhyr bit out, while Regis pulled out a chair and the Emperor himself slumped at the table, wincing.

“Your Majesty was unconscious for fourteen days,” the doctor informed him. That at least explained his weakness, and possibly also the terrible hunger. He had the sense to sip slowly on the second cup of broth that was placed before him.

“How did I come to be here, and what has occurred in these two weeks?” he asked in-between sips.

 Meara snapped to attention: “It was my duty to report to Vattier de Rideaux on the movements of General Voorhis. The General has successfully negotiated the agreement with Kovir and Temeria. We then made for Gors Velen and sailed south, when a very sudden storm destroyed half of the fleet.” Emhyr’s gaze darkened. “Cynthia Apeldoorn found our ship in time when I used an alarm glyph, otherwise the damage might have been even worse. She brought me back to the capital, on Rideaux’s orders, while the remaining ships continued south. He sent me to inspect a meeting in the military academy, where I learned that Field Marshal var Moehoen, Trahe, Vremde, and Commander Matsen were planning a coup. I reported to Rideaux, and he asked me to help the witcher secure your person away from the palace. That transpired in the night before the last, and we arrived here only a day ago. I went back to the inn to wait for orders, when I encountered – that is, I mean – your daughter. She was here briefly, then left.”

Emhyr’s mind was reeling. He needed to speak with someone better informed urgently, ideally Rideaux. If what Meara said was true, the commander of his guard, whom he had trusted for years with his life, was guilty of high treason. Just like the sorceress who had wilfully ignored his orders and brought Cirilla into the palace. The stained nightshirt and quilt made slightly more sense now. The bag must belong to the witcher.

“So you abducted me from my palace?” he asked the white-haired man, who looked at him with his spoon still stuck in his mouth. The spoon was removed.

The witcher shrugged casually: “Yes. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

“Did you find a signet ring upon my person?” Emhyr asked, voice not half as calm as he would have preferred it to be.

The witcher frowned, swallowing another bit of stew: “No, I don’t think so. But there was an open document, some sealing wax, and an inkwell open on your desk, in the hidden room next the bedchamber. And Evertsen was snooping about with a letter-opener in his hand. I had to take him out, but he is alive.”

“Are you sure of all this?” he blinked in shock.

Geralt looked at him as if he had hit his head: “Of course I’m sure. I took the letter with me, though I never got the opportunity to read it. Actually, I don’t have it anymore,” he paused, frowning. Emhyr experienced the profound urge to slam his head against the wall – the witcher’s, or his own, he was still debating.

“I found it on your person when you arrived here”, Regis spoke up, carrying over a pot of tea. “The seal was broken, and given the situation I thought it prudent to check. My sincere apologies if I misjudged the situation.”

“What did you find?” Emhyr pressed. This was crucial.

“Your Majesty’s abdication,” the vampire said softly. Meara dropped his cup, cursing as the hot tea hit his lap. The witcher looked surprised.

“And where is that letter now?” he growled, slapping his hand onto the table. The abdication had been a tool of last resort. Peter should have been aware of that, never letting the seal be broken unless there was dire cause. The sense of profound betrayal that had started to hit him with the news about Matsen spread quickly. He felt dizzy.

“Given that it involved her, I thought Cirilla should know. She took the scroll with her,” Regis admitted. Then he stilled suddenly. “Excuse me, someone has arrived.” And leaving a furious and confused Emperor sitting where he was, the vampire disappeared at high speed.

~*~

 

She teleported into the courtyard of the hospital, when almost immediately a dark-haired man with wild eyes materialised before her.

“What do you want here?” he growled, dangerously.

“Dettlaff, wait!” a voice rung out from the door of Regis’ house, which was suddenly flung open. “This is Cirilla.” The dark-haired man looked her over once. Then his face changed into something boyish and chagrined, and he apologised, before walking away quickly.

“Who was that?” she wondered, approaching Regis, who huffed apologetically.

“This is my old friend, the one who went through a bit of a hard time recently. He stays around to recover.” He paused. “But please come inside, they are awake, and I believe there are many questions.” She slumped in relief. He then looked her over, drawing his eyebrows together in a questioning look.

“I know,” she sighed, brushing awkwardly over the velvet gown. She followed him towards the house, when Geralt came bursting out of the door, wielding an iron poker. Seeing her there, he dropped the improvised weapon and hugged her tightly. She felt so incredibly relieved to see him awake and well.

Letting go of her, the witcher clasped her shoulders and looked at her: “What happened, are you alright?” He did his whole father-wolf thing, sniffing around his cub to see what was amiss.

“I’m fine, let’s go inside,” she shoved him off with a desperate grin. Stepping into the house, she was greeted with yet another strange sight on this impossible day. Leaning against the doorframe, she found her father, dressed in a morning robe, unshaven and with mussed hair. He looked weak and haggard, but his eyes were clear and focussed. His initial expression of anger quickly morphed into astonishment as he slowly but determinedly walked towards her.

“Cirilla,” he asked hollowly, taking his her appearance. Suddenly it was all too much.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to do, and I just tried to make it right,” she began to prattle, wringing her hands. Tears spilled over her cheeks, and she looked to the floor.

“Cirilla,” he asked again in alarm, and she raised her gaze when his hand came to rest on her shoulder. His worried eyes bore into hers. “What is amiss?” She could not speak, and for a moment they all stood frozen. Then, very slowly, Emhyr drew her into his arms, and like all those years ago something about it felt ridiculously save and warm.

“I think I’m the new Empress of Nilfgaard”, she confessed into his shoulder, and he froze. But he did not let go of her, did not berate or yell. Then, a second pair of strong arms wrapped around her from the side, and together they just stood there.

~*~

With uncertainty, Geralt looked at Emhyr’s expression as they embraced her together. He remembered the dream now, their shared grief and pain at holding the projection of their dead child. And in the other man’s glittering dark eyes, he thought that maybe in the midst of all this chaos an unexpected alliance had been forged. Whatever her future brought, they would do their best to be there for her. Together.

 

 


	10. Something Ends, Something Begins (Epilogue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone, this is the last chapter of the original bunch of chapters I have written for this story, which then became three acts of a series instead. as for more: I am currently working on a fourth act, but the writing will take some time. I can already tell you that it will (finally, from my perspective) focus in on Emhyr as a character, which really was the key idea from the beginning. somehow (coughs) it took 65000 words to actually get there. if you like it, subscribe to the series, and leave a comment with any feedback or ideas! best, lC

_22 nd Velen, Nilfgaard of the Golden Towers_

 

The guard tower was built into the flank of the steep rock plateau, directly next to where the bridge connected the palace to the city. The holding cell located at its base offered little comfort, but the view from the barred little window was beautiful. Mournfully, Corinne watched as the sun set. Distant singing came from the streets, and the bells of the temples had rung all evening. In the red light of the setting sun, the golden towers shone like blazing torches, and the lanterns of hundreds of people flocking the streets and river sparkled like little embers. It was beautiful, just as she had seen it in her vision.

“A glass of vodka,” he commented behind her, appearing out of mid-air in shadows of the cell. Corinne’s eyes widened in horror, “a house kept,” he ticked off an item on a list that he held out, “and to never quarrel with dear Sara again. I believe that has been arranged, as for the _never_ _again_...” The stranger came to stand beside her, his amiable face suddenly turning very dark: “I was tempted to let you go - but you have broken your promise, and tried to warn the nice lieutenant of the deal you made with the sorceress. And I cannot have you interfering with my business, you see…”

“No!” she whimpered, crouching against the wall.

He leered at her: “One should always be careful what one wishes for” he whispered into her ear.

~*~

When it was done, he straightened his clothes, leaving her empty husk on the floor. He materialised himself onto the roof of the guard tower. The view was splendid indeed. As the news had spread from Velen Tower, mouth to mouth, the people had gathered. Nilfgaard spontaneously celebrated its new Empress and Emperor. Unravelling the fabric of space before his mind’s eye, he saw _him_ toast with his officers, the smile of victory bright in his face. He saw _her_ too, in the embrace of her fathers. It had pained him to stay away from her. Cirilla. She made him curious like no other. But he knew he could not interfere too much. Not _yet_ , he soothed himself. But for that moment, he allowed himself to watch her from the distance, an unquenched hunger churning in his heart.

 

 

the end (for now)


End file.
